


Three Kings

by redseeker



Series: Three Kings [3]
Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Brainwashing, Canon Continuation, F/M, M/M, Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Slavery, Sticky Sex, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 76,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1301386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redseeker/pseuds/redseeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having escaped to a remote planet, Megatron and Starscream regroup their army in preparation for an all-or-nothing assault on Cybertron. But there are other, darker forces than the Decepticons at work, and neither the Decepticon leaders nor even the Prime himself have anticipated the form their real battle for their home-planet will take.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nightfall

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters 1 - 4 revised and re-uploaded 2015

It was a clear and starry night. The fields beyond the habitation-block lay in thick darkness, the lamp hanging from the porch roof casting an island of warm, pink light on the figure seated beneath it.

Rodimus liked to come out here in the down-shifts and sit and watch the slow turning of the universe. That was that he called it after a high-grade or two, when he tended to wax poetic. Kup made fun of his rocking-chair, saying _he_ was the old bot who ought to sit and creak in a thing like that, but Rodimus could easily spend joors just sitting and watching night fall over the energon farm. Tonight the sky was crystal clear, the heavens having darkened slowly from fresh mint-green to emerald, and then to deep, velvety black. The stars shone like lost sparks in an endless void.

The cold nights made his damaged joints ache, but the peace he felt whilst stargazing was worth the discomfort.

A peace which, tonight, was to be short-lived.

Rodimus closed his optics and breathed in a deep vent-full of cool night air. As he opened them again and gazed upward, one of the stars in his eye-line blazed brighter than the rest. It took Rodimus a moment to realise it wasn't his optics playing tricks. The star fell, burning through the sky trailing bright white fire, and it kept falling.

Not a star, he realised. A comet, perhaps.

Whatever it was, it was coming down.

A split-second later, the ground shook.

Rodimus took a deep breath and then let it out in a slow, controlled sigh. He thought about going back inside and going to bed, about ignoring the problem until the morning. Whatever it was had come down in the north field. It was quite a drive, but it was a quiet night...

He sat for several more kliks. Kup had already retired for the night, and he didn't stir. The old mech slept like the dead. Rodimus decided there was no point waking him for a stray meteorite.

He rose and stepped down from the porch. He didn't even bother going back inside for his bow. In all the time he had lived on Arelline, the most dangerous thing he had encountered was a patch of quicksand. The bow was probably almost as rusty as he was, by now.

He transformed when he reached the road. A single-lane dirt trail with grass growing between the tyre tracks, Rodimus followed it north, with his headlights lighting up the dark.

As he drove further away from the farmhouse, a faint fiery glow began to appear on the horizon. Whatever it was that had come down, it was burning. 

 

* * *

 

Starscream held out for much longer than Megatron thought he would be able to. Joors passed and Starscream stubbornly remained at the helm of the _Rebellion_ , where he had stationed himself during their flight from New Kaon and the Autobot battleship that had so very nearly destroyed them all. Starscream flew the _Rebellion_ as if it were his own frame, his own wings. His hands were steady and quick upon the controls as he leapt from one space bridge to the next, evading a pursuit that still failed to materialise. It was only when the planet was in sight upon the ship's scanners that Starscream started to falter.

Their flight had taken less time than their madcap escape from Akeron, but this journey had been taxing in a different way. When they left Akeron, Starscream had been hale and whole. At New Kaon he had suffered grievous wounds at the deformed hands of a mindless battle-drone intent on tearing his wings from his body. Starscream had destroyed the creature, ripping its tainted spark from its chest with his own claws, but he had sustained heavy damage in the struggle. The seeker had been immovable, however, and neither Gull's entreaties nor Megatron's orders had been enough to tear Starscream away from the _Rebellion_ 's helm. His face had remained set and grim, and his optics had blazed with a fiery determination none of them could dim.

Now, joors later, Megatron was slumped in the captain's seat on a darkened bridge with his head in his hand. The others had retired for some much-needed recharge, and even Megatron had been dozing in his chair. He had taken some minor wounds in the battle at New Kaon as well, mosty from the ground-to-air artillery firing upon himself and Lugnut from the mountains, trying to protect the facility Starscream had destroyed. Gull had patched him up, and compared to the livid gashes and stab wounds to Starscream's mangled wing, which dripped energon even now, Megatron was a picture of health.

He lifted his head when he heard an alarm start to chirp. Starscream's silhouette was not as rigid as it had been before Megatron had begun to doze. In fact, the seeker was starting to sway, his shoulders slumped. Megatron straightened and looked past Starscream to the viz-screen, which showed a verdant green planet, approaching fast.

Megatron swallowed, and then moistened his dry lips. “Starscream,” he said. Starscream didn't react, but still the ship hurtled onward. “Starscream.” Megatron rose to his feet.

“I'm fine,” Starscream snapped. His claws moved spasmodically across the console, scratching and stabbing at glyphs with a frantic urgency Megatron hadn't seen him use, even in the initial flight from the _Ariel_. He frowned and moved closer. “We're approaching... the planet Glaive told us about,” Starscream hissed, and Megatron saw his wings angle down a degree. The small motion dislodged some of the dried energon that had crusted over the worst of his wounds, and set them leaking again. “Must have blacked out for a moment,” Starscream muttered, and Megatron stared at him in alarm.

“Starscream.” Megatron laid his hand on Starscream's shoulder and could feel the tension in him, like it was the only thing holding the trembling mech together. Megatron inwardly cursed himself for a Pit-damned fool. He should never have let Starscream carry on like this, and certainly shouldn't have left him alone. However much Starscream hissed and protested, Megatron should have used any means to get Starscream to take the rest and care he clearly needed. Megatron hadn't realised how hurt he really was, and hadn't wanted to butt heads with the seeker at such a crucial time.

“Don't fuss over me... have to... land...”

Starscream changed the angle of their descent, but they were still going far too fast as they started to enter the planet's atmosphere. The ship rocked, and outside flames roared. Megatron stood behind Starscream's chair and held the seeker's shoulders as the ship jolted and jounced, feeling like it was being tossed on violent winds. Eventually, somehow, Starscream got them through, and then they were thrown into a clear dark sky. Miraculously they had not burned up to dust, but the engines were still screaming, and the ground was rushing up fast. “Starscream!”

Starscream's optics were flickering. He used the last of his failing strength to pull the ship up, to decrease its speed just enough to spare them from disintegration upon impact. They were streaming through the sky, smoke and flame spearing behind them. Alarms were shrieking, elsewhere in the ship the other Decepticons were scrambling, but Megatron's attention was focused only on the fading seeker, and his grip on Starscream's shoulders remained desperately tight. He spoke, words tumbling out in a confused jumble of encouragements and commands, his frame curled to the back of Starscream's chair and his mouth close to the jet's audio. He wasn't thinking on his words, he wasn't thinking at all, but they seemed to reach Starscream all the same. Perhaps it was simply the desperation in his voice, or perhaps Starscream rallied on his own. It didn't matter – Starscream's hand swept across the console and a line of glyphs lit up in the wake of his skittering, sharp fingers. The ship lurched as the brakes engaged, and then they were streaking over farmland. Megatron saw dark fields stream by on the screen in a crazy blur, and then Starscream slumped forward and the tension beneath Megatron's hands was gone. Megatron caught Starscream as he fell from the seat he had stubbornly occupied for all the fraught joors since Pyrovar, just an instant before the _Rebellion_ crashed down to earth.

He was thrown off his feet at the impact, but when he hit the floor his arms were still around Starscream. He held the other mech to his chest and curled around him to shelter him from damage as the ship ploughed through earth and trees. She was being torn apart, engines and metal screamed, but within a matter of astroseconds it was over. The alarms wailed plaintively on, but Megatron knew he was online and, thank the Allspark, in one piece.

Slowly, he uncurled his frame. They had ended up curled beneath the control console, Starscream's undamaged wing folded awkwardly beneath him. Megatron forced his stiff frame to obey him and rose carefully to his knees. He rolled Starscream onto his back and checked him. His optics were closed, but his intakes cycled evenly, if quietly. Megatron tried to wake him with a gentle shake, but Starsceam didn't respond. He tried gingerly to unshutter one of the seeker's optics, and found it lightless beneath the lid. He raised his head and glanced around.

The bridge was in a state of chaotic disarray, and filled with smoke. Raising Blitzwing on his comm, he said, “Status report. Now.”

“One hell of a bumpy landing!” came his lieutenant's gleeful reply, and Megatron sighed. The triple-changer was a good soldier, but his tics weren't always the most helpful for a first officer. “I think we are mostly in one piece, but- tell Starscream I'll pound him into scrap metal if he tries pulling anything like that again!”

“Noted,” Megatron said resignedly and cut the comm. He gently slid his arms under Starscream's frame and lifted him.

The last time he had held Starscream like this, Starscream's damage had been worse, so much worse, but at least he had been awake.

Megatron rose unsteadily to his feet and cradled Starscream against his chest. The bridge was dark, and the smoke choked his vents. He held Starscream with a strength undiminished by all of his trials, his incarceration and numberless battles. It was a solace to know that even after everything, his frame would not betray him. Thus carrying Starscream, he made his way from the bridge.

The ship's integrity was fairly badly compromised. On the way to the airlock he passed Blitzwing battling a fire that had broken out in the galley, and Glaive and Blackarachnia contemplating a breach in the hull just past the armoury. He motioned for them to leave it. Repairs could wait. Right now he just wanted to know the extent of their injuries, and to make sure everybot was still online. Once that query was satisfied, other concerns could take priority, such as gathering fuel and setting up shelters.

He reached the airlock, although the hatch had been torn away and the mechanism for the ramp was jammed. The ship was canted at an angle, having been driven deep into the soft earth by the force of its landing. Megatron stepped out and engaged his thrusters to lower himself to the ground, gently so as not to jolt Starscream. His feet touched down onto a soft, springy layer of thick moss. Behind the ship, stretching across a broad span of farmland, was a dark gouge where the _Rebellion_ had skidded before finally coming to rest at the edge of a thick organic forest.

Megatron staggered a few steps from the smouldering ship. She was in bad shape, but he knew Starscream had done well to save even this much of her.

In a patch of deep shade beneath a tall tree, its bark silver in the light of the two moons, Megatron lay Starscream down on the soft, cushiony moss. The seeker looked peaceful, as if he were in recharge – or at least he would, if not for the wounds scattered across his battered frame. Most were surface wounds, scratches from the battle-drone's claws. The worst was the four stab holes in Starscream's wing. Megatron knelt by Starscream's side and leaned down to inspect it. The claws had pierced right through plating and protoform both, all the way through. Gull had done her best to cleanse them during the fight, but Starscream's refusal to leave the bridge and his adamance that everybot stop bothering him had left her options limited. What worried Megatron most was the loss of energon.

The damage was to the same wing the Quintessons had stripped. For a moment Megatron's hand hovered over the place where a brand should be, and had been, once. Now the metal was plain and thin save the ooze and smear of energon, and marked with neither brand nor Xerissan tattoos. Now the only mark upon it was from the monster's claws.

Megatron sat back on his heels and placed one hand on the front of Starscream's helm. The crack there was empty, and had been for a long time now. And Starscream's spark-chamber... Unless Starscream decided to show him, Megatron would never know for sure, but he was pretty certain that was empty too. He stroked his other hand over the swell of Sarscream's cockpit. The red glass was semi-transparent, and no light glowed within. If Megatron failed to pay attention to the quiet cycling of his intakes, Starscream looked for all the world like a dead mech. Megatron's chest tightened at the thought, unexpected fear and despair warring with guilt within his spark.

He grunted and sat down with his back against the tree. He closed his optics and covered them with his hand. Why in the Pit should he feel _guilty_? He had killed Starscream with a single blow, and it had been clean and just. Starscream was a _traitor_. He had struck first, planted a bomb on his back like a black-sparked assassin, a cowardly way to the throne. Megatron's rage had been righteous and his vengeance – no, his punishment – a long time coming. Fifty stellar cycles he had spent humiliated and degraded, helpless at a human's hands. He had been due that reckoning.

But Starscream, stubborn, hard-headed and burning with a righteous fury of his own, had come back, each time looking more like a vision from the Pit itself. Megatron hadn't counted how many more times he had put him down, but with each attempt Starscream had become more reckless, coming at him as if he were invincible. Megatron had dispensed his justice each and every time, his spark roiling with indignation that the shameless glitch simply _refused_ to accept defeat.

That was the thing about Starscream. He could believe something so fiercely that he could make it true. With the fiery power of his own fierce belief, he could achieve the impossible, whether that was getting up again each and every time a cannon-blast or sword-swipe knocked him down, even if a thousand years had to pass in between, or resurrecting a dead army to revive a fight Megatron had believed long since lost.

It was what made him so infuriating, and so magnificent. It had been Starscream's ruthless, bloody-minded _refusal_ to lie down and give up that had brought them this far. Starscream had broken them out of Akeron's fortified walls, had dragged Megatron half-way across the galaxy to the seat of his lost empire and back again with an army following on their thrusters. More importantly, he had forced, bullied, cajoled and encouraged Megatron not to give up himself. A thousand years in four lonely walls on that Primus-forsaken rock had taken more from Megatron than he would ever admit. What Shockwave hadn't managed to break, the loneliness and helplessness had. But Starscream had needed him, and had refused to accept his weakness. He had thrust Megatron back into power and, by refusing to tolerate any other outcome, he had brought Megatron back to himself.

Megatron didn't know how Starscream had returned from death this time, when all signs in the universe said he should be dead, but he thought it was enough like Starscream that perhaps he really had simply walked out of the Pit because he just wasn't done with this world yet.

That thought brought a smile to Megatron's lips for a moment, but it faded at once when he opened his optics and saw a dark figure running toward him.

“Is he online?” Vault barked.

Megatron was too weary to chastise the mech's impertinent lack of respect. The ache in his spark had by now suffused his entire frame to form a strut-deep exhaustion. He nodded. “Fetch Gull,” he said. “And any medical supplies you can.” He watched as Vault knelt on the other side of Starscream. His face was taut with worry, and dark shadows were etched beneath his blue-white optics. “He collapsed just before the landing. He held on just long enough to make sure the ship wasn't destroyed. Long enough to save us.”

“Stubborn glitch...” Vault's face screwed up in a grimace of anger and pain. “He just had to-” He looked up at Megatron and his optics flashed. “Why did you make him do it? Somebot else could have flown the ship!”

Megatron held Vault's accusing gaze for the length of a slow intake. His spark burned with shame, as Vault's words echoed too closely his own thoughts just prior to the crash.

He forced himself to keep his vocals quiet and even as he said, “Do you really believe I _made_ him do this? If you really think Starscream still follows my orders, then you don't know him half as well as you think you do, little Autobot.”

Vault looked down, and his optics found Starscream's face. If ever Megatron had doubted Vault's devotion to Starscream – and he had, deeply – those doubts were burned away now. The mech loved him, clear for anyone to see. “...I know,” Vault said softly, and his shoulders lowered. “I'll get that medic.”

Vault returned to the ship at a jog, and Megatron watched him go. He stayed with Starscream a little longer, standing over him as the others bustled around the grounded ship, setting up camp with well-trained efficiency. Beyond, the energon field was all in darkness. Megatron listened to the wind rustle in the trees behind him, and felt a chill. He only left Starscream's side when Gull arrived with a medical kit in one hand. He left Starscream to her care, and went to fulfil the role Starscream had driven him to accept once more. These were Decepticons, and they needed their leader.

 

* * *

  

Something was happening in the north field. Rodimus rolled to a stop and turned off his lights, transformed, and narrowed his optics. Whatever had come down had stopped burning, but smoke still rose where it had ignited the flammable energon crystals. His view of the field was obscured by a rise of earth covered with thick, long grass. He crept closer and crouched at the base of the ridge, then sank down onto his belly. He crawled up the incline, the sound of his movements swallowed by the soft susurration of the wind in the grass.

What he saw at the edge of the forest made him gasp in shock. He dimmed his optics by reflex. There, smouldering and half-wrecked, was a Decepticon warship. Not as massive as the ancient flagship _Nemesis_ , but still big, and very definitely Decepticon. And very definitely crashed in Rodimus's field.

He suddenly wished very much that he had paused to fetch and bring his bow. He hadn't thought it necessary, just as he hadn't thought it necessary to disturb Kup, and the result was that he was alone and unarmed, in the dark, facing a ship full of Decepticons. He didn't dare risk his comms, not when there was a chance the 'Cons would overhear.

Very quietly and slowly, he crawled backward and retreated down the bank. He would return to the habitation-block, tell Kup, call the Guard...

His plans were dashed an instant later. “Look what I found!” The sharp cry broke the silence, followed by a burst of maniacal laughter. A hand grasped the scruff of Rodimus's neck and hauled him up. “Can I keep him?” Rodimus thrashed and clawed at the hand that gripped hm, but the Decepticon's hold was unbreakable. He was lifted off the ground and turned, and he got a good look at his captor. A Decepticon, and a big one, his black visage lit by a scarlet jack-o-lantern grin.

“Blitzwing! Let me go, right now!” Rodimus tried to sound worthy of the rank he had once held, even though he squirmed and kicked as ineffectually as a protoform. Blitzwing only cackled and turned toward the ship. He lifted Rodimus higher and waved him like a trophy, shaking him and jolting his frame painfully. In the shadow of the downed ship, several pairs of crimson optics turned their way. Blitzwing carried him down the bank and into a pool of light cast by a ring of improvised energon torches. Rodimus managed only a quick and frantic glance around before he was flung to the ground in the centre of the circle of torch-light. The former Prime grunted as he landed on his face and got a mouthful of dirt. He turned over and gazed fearfully up just as a ring of tall dark silhouettes surrounded him.

One figure towered taller and broader than the rest. Malignant red optics blazed down at him, and as the figure stepped closer the flickering torch-light picked out a face from every Autobot's nightmares.

“Megatron!” Rodimus's spark contracted, an icy cold suddenly gripping his whole frame. What was _Megatron_ doing _here_? Arelline was a small, forgotten backwood, boasting nothing but energon farms and wilderness. It was completely out of the way, a simple agricultural outpost beneath the notice of the Elite Guard and Decepticons both. That was the very reason Kup had chosen it as a place where both he and Rodimus could retire, where the peace and quiet would soothe his old frame, and where there would be nothing to stand in the way of Rodimus's slow recuperation. There was absolutely _no_ reason for Decepticons to land on Arelline. The energon resources were there, of course, but there were richer stockpiles to be raided elsewhere. The planet had no military significance, and was too far from Cybertron to constitute any kind of advantageous stronghold. It was simply... _nowhere_.

Which meant Megatron's arrival had to be nothing more than blind chance. A crashed ship, an unplanned detour. Bad luck for Megatron, catastrophic for Rodimus.

Megatron glowered down at him, and then turned to one of his cronies and said, “Glaive. You failed to mention this was an Autobot world.”

Rodimus flicked his attention to the slim femme who answered, “My lord, it wasn't- That is, the last time I was here it was unaligned. Unpopulated. I... I was onlined on another planet in this system which was destroyed in the war. There shouldn't be _anybot_ here...”

“Hm.” Megatron considered Rodimus once more. Rodimus carefully got to his feet, though his cosmic rust damage, exacerbated by Blitzwing's rough handling, made every movement painful. “How many of you are there, Autobot?”

Rodimus set his jaw. He was determined not to cower before the infamous warlord. “Hundreds,” he lied. “And once they realise I'm gone, they'll be all over your little camp!”

Megatron's expression was stony. He was not convinced. He motioned to Blitzwing and a hulking behemoth Rodimus recognised, with a sinking feeling, as Lugnut. “Survey the area. Find out if this Autobot is telling the truth.” The two planes saluted and took off in a cacophonous roar of engines, and Rodimus shielded his optics from the swirling dust. “Vault, take the Autobot into custody. Does this ship of Cyclonus's have a brig? Good. Make sure he is... comfortable.”

Rodimus struggled as a pair of hands grasped his arms and twisted them behind his back. Within moments his wrists were locked in stasis-cuffs, and his frame was paralysed. He was roughly turned around, and he glared angrily up into optics that were... blue?

His confusion only had a moment to register, before the mech smirked at him and hoisted him onto his shoulder. “No hard feelings, Prime,” the blue-eyed mech said. He strode toward the wrecked ship with easy, rolling steps, carrying Rodimus with no difficulty. Rodimus was no minibot, but this mech was almost as tall as a Decepticon... Except his optics were pure, bright blue.

Autobot blue.

“Quickly,” Rodimus hissed, “get me out of here. While they're distracted-”

The mech let out a burst of throaty laughter. He was climbing up a makeshift ladder into the ship's primary airlock now. The interior of the ship was dark, lit only by more of the improvised torches, affixed at intervals down the wall. “Sorry mech, can't help you. You've got no friends here.” Rodimus's spark chilled in despair.

The strange mech carried him deeper into the ship, until he reached a short, dark corridor bordered by three thick, barred doors. He opened one of these, and dumped Rodimus into the tiny cell within.

“It's a bit primitive in here, but believe me it's still a step up from where I used to work,” the mech said.

Rodimus stared at him, uncomprehending. “Where did you used to work?”

Arelline was pretty off the grid, so intergalactic news tended to trickle in slowly. After retiring from the Guard, Rodimus had stopped paying much attention to Cybertronian matters, either political or military, and Kup had agreed it was best for him to spend time away from such stressors in order to help him recover from his lingering damage. As such, the break-out from Akeron had barely registered on his awareness.

The mech gripped Rodimus's spoiler and turned him around. Rodimus felt the immense relief of the stasis-cuffs' current disappearing, but a moment later his hands were raised and a new set of manacles was clapped around his wrists. He tugged at his new bonds. Well, at least he could move...

“Akeron,” the mech said. “Elite like you must have heard of it. It's where you put the 'Cons too bad for even Trypticon to hold.”

Rodimus turned to watch the mech step back. The cell was dark, but the light of both their optics was enough of a glow to get a look at him. Tall and dark, with a handsome face illuminated by clear blue optics. But on his chest, where an Autobot crest should have gleamed, was a dark brand.

“You were an Autobot,” Rodimus said. “You're a traitor.”

“Me?” the mech said, with a shrug. “Oh yeah. Twice over.” He flashed a nonchalant grin. “A mech's gotta follow his spark, after all. Now, don't get any ideas. You're not going anwhere-”

“You won't get away with this!” Rodimus yelled. He strained at his cuffs, cursing his weakened body. “Any of you! The Elite Guard will come down on all of you so hard-”

The cell door slammed shut. There was a buzzing sound as a force-field on its interior was activated. There was a small barred window in the top section of the door. Through the bars, the blue-eyed mech said, “Make all the threats you want, Prime. It's no different to me. I'll come back to check on you in a few joors. Maybe.”

With that, he walked away, leaving Rodimus alone in darkness, helpless and trapped. Rodimus bit down on his panic and thought frantically how to escape. All his Elite training seemed lost to him.

He tried to raise Kup on his comms, but the cell walls seemed to block the frequency.

All he could do now was wait and hope.

He closed his optics and curled up, hoping and praying to the Allspark that Kup wouldn't come looking for him by himself.

 

* * *

 

 Megatron accepted a cube of mid-grade from Glaive as he passed her, and took a welcome sip. He hadn't fuelled enough today. As he paced onward, the femme trotted after him. She clasped her hands together, her optics full of worry.

“Lord Megatron, sir,” she said. “I just really wanted to apologise. I had no idea Autobots had even found this world, I was built nearby as a neutral. If I- If the Guard-”

“We needed somewhere to retreat to,” Megatron interrupted crisply. “I made the decision. You won't be punished for one stray Autobot in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Although, tired as he was, she might be if she kept on pestering him. He cast her a quick sidelong glance. Her optics were large, and her expression was thankful. He guessed she must be rather awe-struck, finding herself suddenly in close proximity to the Decepticon high command. Most of the rank and file wouldn't, after all. She was a pretty thing, he supposed, though rather frail and timid for his tastes. “Do you understand?” His tone was sharper than he intended, but he had no responsibility to mollycoddle his troops.

Before she could reply, he turned and walked the remaining few paces to the foil tent Gull had set up, since the _Rebellion_ 's tiny med-bay had been turned upside down by the crash. He glowered as he walked, his mood having turned sour.

Inside the tent, Starscream was laid out on a soft foam mattress on the ground, just wide enough for his wingspan. He was attached to an energon drip, and a mobile computer terminal. Gull knelt at his side, checking her scanner.

“How is he?” Megatron snapped.

Gull looked up with a pinched expression, but she appeared unfazed by the warlord's ire. “No change, sir,” she said.

Megatron sighed. “Do you need to monitor him all down-shift?” She shook her head. “Good. Turn in for the night. ...If anything changes, I'll comm you.” Gull stood, sketched a salute, and then left.

Megatron eased his weary frame down onto the ground by Starscream's side. Allowed a moment's weakness here where no bot could see him, he held his head in his hands.

“Starscream...” he murmured. “Frag it all, Starscream! You can't drag me out of that place, all the way here, and then just-” He closed his optics tight and clenched his jaw.

Starscream had needed him, that was undeniably true. But Megatron needed him too. Without Starscream, Megatron would still be rusting in his cell, or else lost in the twilit desert of his false memories on Torkulon.

He knew he should get some sleep, but the dark cabin on the _Rebellion_ was just as unappealing as the temporary quarters that had been set up for him outside. He had resented sharing a berth with Starscream at first, but now, faced with the prospect of retiring without him, his spark balked at the thought. The loneliness of the endless years in Akeron pressed down on him, and he knew he couldn't sleep alone.

Instead, he carefully lay down on the soft, springy ground beside Starscream's mattress, on the side of Starscream's good wing. Too strut-weary to worry about another bot walking in, he curled up on his side. He closed his optics, and even though Starscream was silent and cool to the touch, his systems still hummed faintly, and Megatron's sensors picked up the subtle energy of his EM field. Soothed by these reminders of the seeker's continued presence in his world, Megatron laid his hand on Starscream's wing, and slept.


	2. Exile

Optimus strode down a corridor deep within the heart of Fortress Maximus. Worry gnawed at his fuel tank, and he walked with hunched shoulders and a distant look in his optics. 

Not only had he put the _Ariel_ out of action yet again, but he had let both Megatron _and_ Starscream get away. By the time the Decepticon fleet had finished with him, the _Ariel_ had been unable to lift off from the surface of Pyrovar. He had wondered why they didn't push to outright destroy her, until he realised Megatron's ship had already fled the field. The battle had been nothing but a distraction, one which had grounded the Autobot flagship and cost the Guard millions of credits.

He approached a turn in the corridor and drew himself up. He squared his shoulders, and lifted his head. It was time to face the consequences. 

He turned the corner and stepped into a wide, high-ceilinged chamber. The spacious room looked out upon the most affluent area of the city, and light streamed in through the wall of large windows. Outside, white and glass towers glittered in the light of the orbiting satellites. It was a bright and clear day, but within Ultra Magnus's office the atmosphere was like a storm-cloud. 

Magnus sat at his desk at the far side of the room. At his right hand, radiating a turbulent mixture of righteous anger and vindictive anticipation, was Sentinel Prime. 

Optimus approached the desk. The Elite Guard leader had undergone severe damage just before the Battle of Detroit, when Shockwave had turned the Magnus's own hammer on him, but while his frame was weakened, the bot inside was still the same vital and charismatic leader he always had been. Right now, his gaze was steely and cool, and his expression was grim. 

Optimus stood to attention and snapped an Academy-standard salute. The Elite crest emblazoned on his shoulder caught the light. 

“You have some explaining to do, Optimus Prime,” Ultra Magnus said. Optimus grit his teeth. As humiliating as this was, he was a Prime, and being Prime meant he had to maintain accountability. He had to take responsibility for what had happened at Darkmount, just as he had the last time he had crashed the flagship. 

“Sir,” he said mildly. “With respect, I handed in my full report this morning.”

“Yes.” Ultra Magnus rested his hand on a closed datapad on his desk. “I had the pleasure of reviewing it just a few joors ago. I prefer to hear your version of events directly from you. I also have a few questions.” 

Optimus hesitated a moment, and when he realised Magnus intended to allow Sentinel to remain for the session, he bit down on his instinct to object. He cycled a breath, and then said, “Sir, I really don't have any more to add to what's already in the report. We responded to a distress call from the Pyrovar Research Base. When we transwarped in, the base was already under attack by the Decepticons. I tried to capture them, but they fled on a Decepticon ship.”

Sentinel Prime snorted derisively and muttered, “Convenient.”

Optimus ignored him and ploughed onward. “They fled on a Decepticon ship. I tried to give chase in the _Ariel_ , but other Decepticon ships transwarped in and attacked us. Megatron got away...”

Magnus steepled his fingers before him, his elbows resting on the pristine white surface of his desk. “Tell me, why did you fail to activate the _Ariel_ 's special battle protocol?”

“Sir,” Optimus said with a frown. “She's not ready for that. Those protocols have hardly been tested-”

“I think the situation called for decisive action, Optimus!” Sentinel interrupted. “A bot might start to wonder just what was holding you back. Could it be your loyalties have been _compromised_?” 

Magnus gestured for Sentinel to be quiet.

Optimus ignored his fellow Prime again, and spoke directly to Ultra Magnus. “Sir, the ship hasn't bonded with anybot yet, and I don't think the middle of a battle is the best place to conduct those kinds of tests.”

“And yet, if you a had taken that chance, perhaps the notorious warlord and his lieutenant may not have escaped your custody. _Ariel_ 's functionality has been extensively lab tested, Optimus. All that remains is a bond to optimise the system and trigger the final stage of development. Something you have been reluctant to take on from the get-go.”

“I just don't think it's something that should be rushed, that's all-”

“I understand,” Magnus said crisply. At Optimus's questioning look, Magnus said, “That's why I have authorised Sentinel Prime for that duty in your place. Perhaps he will succeed where you have failed.”

“Sir!” Optimus flushed with anger and shock. _Ariel_ was _his_ ship, his responsibility. He had been honoured to have been given the opportunity, and had taken it as a mark of the Magnus's respect and trust in him. “Please, give me another chance, I just-”

“I have received some reports, Optimus Prime,” Ultra Magnus cut in. He fixed Optimus with a penetrating stare. “Some of which I find... distressing.”

Optimus felt unsteady on his feet. His fuel sang in his audios, and the smug, malicious look on Sentinel's face instilled a heavy dread in the base of his tank. “S-sir?”

“I trust I don't need to remind you that fraternising is frowned-upon within the Elite Guard, let alone with a Decepticon. A Decepticon _prisoner_ , no less.”

Optimus's spark stalled. He felt dizzy and sick. “What exactly are you accusing, sir?” he managed to say. He was astounded at the level tone of his voice.

“Nothing,” Ultra Magnus said. Sentinel took a breath and looked about to blurt out his objection, but Ultra Magnus continued crisply and hard, “No one is making any accusations, Optimus. We can't afford to. How do you think that would look, with you the hero who defeated Megatron and saved the world?” He sighed wearily and sat back in his chair. “Members of your crew aboard the _Ariel_ reported some troubling behaviour whilst you held the Decepticon Starscream in your custody. Sentinel Prime was conscientious enough to bring this to my attention.”

Optimus shot Sentinel an incensed look. After all Sentinel had put him through, Optimus had still foolishly considered him a friend. But that was before this betrayal.

“You ought to be grateful to Sentinel, Optimus,” Magnus said, pulling Optimus's attention back to him. “Gossip can be deadly to a mech's career. This could have turned out very badly for you.”

Optimus's faceplates burned in shame and humiliation. He lowered his head, his shoulders hunched and his hands clenched. Spark, but he had been a fool to think no-bot had noticed... Weeks of nocturnal visits to Starscream's tent had to have been marked by someone, but Optimus had been too caught up in his guilty infatuation, in the thrill of the forbidden, to be as careful as he should. His processor was racing. They wouldn't have proof – they _couldn't_ , not with Starscream half way to Skaro by now. But they had witnesses. It was then he realised what it meant that Magnus had called this meeting, between just the three of them – before the rumours went too far. This was damage control. Optimus had a reputation as a trusted officer, he was the Elite Guard's poster boy. That reputation would be tarnished forever. 

“Sir... I'm not asking for any favours.” He knew he had done wrong. It really was time to face the consequences. “I don't deserve any special treatment.”

“Oh, this isn't a favour. If your reputation is destroyed, where does that leave the rest of the Guard? No, I can't afford to let this get out into the public sphere. The Elite Guard cannot afford a scandal.” Optimus looked up at Ultra Magnus with an anguished frown. The look of disgust upon his superior's face cut Optimus to the spark. “Let me be clear. Your behaviour was unacceptable, and completely unfitting of an officer of the Elite Guard. However, if this... misdemeanour were made public, we would all be disgraced.”

So, Optimus thought. No court-marshal, no scandal. A cover-up. It left a bad taste in his mouth.

“What about the bots who reported me?” Optimus said.

Ultra Magnus's optics flickered for only the briefest of moments. “They will be taken care of,” he said. “Now, I recommend we all put this matter behind us. Custody of the _Ariel_ prototype will be signed over to Sentinel Prime. In the meantime, I have a new assignment for you, Optimus.” 

Ultra Magnus picked up a datapad and rose to his feet, and Optimus knew the meeting was nearing its end. He was being brushed under the rug with regards to public accountability, but he was still to be punished. _Ariel_ was _his_ , his responsibility. After the Battle of Detroit, Optimus had received his share of honours for his heroism, and shortly afterwards he had been, at last, admitted into the ranks of the Elite Guard. For a thousand years his record had remained spotless, and his star had continued to rise. So, when the Earth-Cybertron Alliance announced there was need for a captain for an experimental new vessel, he had been the ideal choice. The launch of the craft, developed in collaboration between the best and brightest of both cultures, had been timed to coincide with the beginning of the year-long celebrations marking the anniversary of the victory on Earth, although circumstances had required her to be launched early instead. General consensus was that it was a vanity project – there was no need for warships in an era of peace – but the honour and prestige had been considerable, and Optimus had been very proud to have been chosen. To have that taken away from him now wasn't only a punishment, it was a humiliation. 

Not to mention the fact that Sentinel would be an absolutely terrible custodian for the young ship. 

In one last-ditch effort, Optimus said, “Please, can't you reconsider-”

“I'm afraid the orders have already been signed,” Ultra Magnus said. He held out the datapad in his hand, and his expression told Optimus that he would tolerate no more protests. “You have been transferred to another ship. It's still your own command, of course.”

“Of course.” It was all Optimus could do not to snatch the pad from his commander's hand. He glanced at it. 

“Your assignment on your new vessel will be to track down the Decepticons _you_ allowed to get away. You will have your every resource at your disposal. Within reason. You have to understand that this is a delicate time for the Alliance. Several things hang in the balance, and our resources are not unlimited.”

So that was how it was, Optimus thought. Crippled from the start, Optimus's operation promised little hope of success. Magnus probably held out more hope that Megatron and Starscream would be brought in by bounty hunters than by Optimus. It was a fool's errand, and everybot in that office knew it. Optimus was being sent out of the way, into unacknowledged exile as punishment for his crimes. 

Well, Optimus would see about that. It would be worth surprising them with success, just to see the look on Sentinel Prime's face. 

And quite apart from anything else, the thought of Starscream in the clutches of some bounty hunter, somebot like Lockdown... It made him shudder, made his tank turn over, even if Starscream _was_ a cold-sparked son-of-a-glitch and Optimus was a fool for still holding a candle for him after their brief and ill-advised fling.

Optimus saluted, and was about to leave when another memory surfaced in his processor. “Sir, those bots at the base-”

Ultra Magnus's optics could have frozen the energon in Optimus's lines. “I don't believe that's relevant, do you? The Decepticons' attack on that base has caused absolute chaos in the Alliance Council. As you can imagine, it's a highly delicate situation, with tempers running high on both sides.”

Optimus's optics darted to Sentinel for a moment, but for once his face was a closed book. There was a tension in the air that warned Optimus not to test Magnus's patience further. He let the old mech walk him toward the door. He wasn't quite being frogmarched, but it was very clear it was time for him to leave. “Of course,” he said, “I just wondered why Megatron would go there of all places. It seems like quite the coincidence-”

Sentinel laughed loudly. “Coincidence? New Kaon is where all the Decepticon refugees crawled off to after they were exiled. It makes perfect sense for old bucket-head to do the same now.” He clapped Optimus hard on the shoulder. “Relax, Optimus. We've already got those Decepticreeps on the run – all you need to do now is go pick 'em up!”

Optimus grit his teeth and forced himself to remain outwardly calm. “...Understood.” Then, to Magnus, “When do I leave?”

“The transfer takes a little time, Optimus,” Magnus said. “But you should be able to get underway within the decacycle. Use the time to gather your crew and supplies.” They were at the door now, and Optimus found himself with his back to it, facing Magnus and Sentinel standing side-by-side. Sentinel's grin seemed slimy and fixed, while Ultra Magnus's face was chiselled out of stone. It was unnerving, being shut out in such a subtle, yet unmistakeable way. “I won't bore you with the minutiae you're already familiar with – you've captained a ship before.”

“Yeah, and don't worry about your ship,” Sentinel said. “She'll be in safe hands.”

“Until I get back,” Optimus said. He saluted once more and took his leave of them both. 

On the way out, he kept his head down and brooded on what had just happened. He was still reeling, and a maelstrom of guilt and shame, anger, and loss raged in his spark. But beneath the roiling emotion, something else niggled. Sentinel had been very quick to dismiss his concern about the strange battle-mechs he had seen on Pyrovar. They both had, in fact. Probably just Autobots on guard detail, he reasoned, posted to an Alliance base as part of the continued relationship between Cybertron and Earth. There were any number of such facilities. _Ariel_ had been built in one, of course. Perhaps Sentinel was right after all, and Megatron had simply returned to New Kaon because he had hoped to find a refuge, and stumbled onto the base instead. 

If everything were as simple as all that, then it should be an easy matter to find those guards' transfer records. Optimus resolved to spend a quick five kliks on it, and then he would be able to put the anomaly out of his mind and focus on his mission proper.

Two floors down, Optimus reached his own office. It was far from small, and was more than adequately appointed, even if the view was not as good as that from the Magnus's. Still, he thought it had its own kind of charm. The large window looked out upon the city's shipyard. Somewhere down there was his ship, his _Ariel_.

Sentinel was a terrible choice for her. Optimus hadn't had very long to get acquainted with his ship – she was barely out of the testing phase, since her production had run so behind schedule. They had been on an impromptu test flight when they had picked up Starscream's first distress signal. There had been no other ships near or fast enough to answer the call, and an Autobot in danger could never be ignored. She had been repaired after the run-in with the raiders that resulted in her being grounded, and then the Council had deemed it necessary to take her out again straight away due to the break-out at Akeron and the newly spiking Decepticon threat, unheard of in one thousand peaceful years. There was still so much he didn't know about the vessel he had been gifted with. He hadn't been involved in the development; Wheeljack, Perceptor, and the Council's science team had led that – many of the same minds who had developed the Omega projects, only this time working in conjunction with human scientists, incorporating human innovations into a brand new design. 

They had assured him her processor was too simple to worry about how to treat her. She was barely more than a machine, they had said. 

And, true enough, each time he had flown her he had interacted only with the Teletraan-class computer that managed the ship's basic systems. In heavy combat, she was designed to enable direct interface between a captain or pilot and the ship. Omega Supreme had suffered something similar, but with _Ariel_ it was an actual design feature, called the Synergy System. Optimus was reluctant to use the feature, as he remembered Omega Supreme too clearly, his gentle voice and the sadness woven into the very current of his simple, honest spark. He had been a mech built as a weapon and doomed to sacrifice. Optimus didn't want _Ariel_ to suffer the same fate. 

Optimus hadn't sensed or experienced any trace of higher intelligence in the huge and graceful machine. But even so, he _had_ sensed _something_. A kind of mute benevolence, perhaps. Maybe nothing more than a reflection of his own fondness for the beautiful vessel he had been able to call his own. 

No longer. The ship he had been reassigned to was an old craft, big and heavy, built before the proliferation of space-bridge travel and designed for prolonged travel in deep space. It was a more practical choice for hauling freight than hunting Decepticons. Optimus would have preferred a warship, or at the least a small, fast craft that wouldn't attract much attention. However, he knew why the decision had been made. Magnus had no real expectation that Optimus would bring the fugitives back – that job was for mercs and bounty-hunters, those unsavoury vigilantes who had prospered so much in the thousand years of alliance with Earth. No, Optimus was simply being sent out of the way, and they had given him a ship that ensured he would never make the mistake of believing this trip was any kind of favour. Perhaps Sentinel had had a hand in picking it out, just to embarrass him further. 

What Optimus was most worried about was leaving the _Ariel_ in Sentinel's ungentle clutches. The behemoth ship was young, newly built, and yet to imprint upon a mentor. Optimus had expected to have that honour, and the thought of her imprinting on a selfish mech like Sentinel made him shudder in disgust. 

He sighed and slumped into his chair behind his desk. He had brought the datapad from Magnus's office, and he opened it again now and reviewed the information on his new ship, the _Odyssey_. He was being given license to choose his crew, as long as he kept the numbers low. He supposed it was assumed he would want people from the _Ariel_ with him, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to do that. The young ship might benefit from familiar faces, and on top of that, Optimus felt uncomfortable with the knowledge that it had been members of his own crew who had gone to Sentinel about Optimus and Starscream. 

Optimus immediately used the datapad to put in the first of his crew requests. Bumblebee was doing well for himself these days. Newly initiated into the Guard, the minibot had finally achieved his life's dream. Optimus often wondered how he was doing, separated from Bulkhead. As far as Optimus knew, the big guy was still working as an expert space-bridge consultant, although his art exhibitions had attracted a surprising bit of popularity over the years as well.

Optimus put the pad aside for now and powered up his personal computer terminal, opening a comm screen. After ringing for a few kliks, and just as Optimus was giving up hope, the call was answered and a friendly face filled the screen.

“Ratchet,” Optimus said with a smile. His spark warmed, and he didn't think he had ever been quite so pleased to see his old friend as he was just then. 

“Prime!” Ratchet seemed surprised, but he gave him a smile as well. “Aren't you a little busy these days to be bothering an old bot like me? Hasn't the Elite Guard got enough for you to do?”

“They have enough, yeah,” Optimus said. “How are you doing?”

“Still tickin', believe it or not. Arcee says I'm too stubborn to relax like a retired bot like me is supposed to.”

“And she's probably right, too,” Optimus said. “How is she?”

“Same old, same old. More memories come back every orbital cycle. It's a process, but... Aw well, you know. It's worth it.”

Optimus nodded. Ratchet had never been one to bandy pleasantries, so Optimus cut straight to it. “Listen Ratchet, I've been given a new command. It would mean a lot if you could-”

“What, come out of retirement for one last mission? C'mon kid, you don't need me to hold your servo anymore, and these struts are too old to go creaking around the galaxy like that anymore. You know that.”

Optimus laughed. “All right, but there is something I wanted to ask you. About Omega Supreme... It might be better if we talked in person.”

Ratchet grunted. “Arcee's always bugging me to get you young kids to come visit, and now you decide you actually _want_ to stop by? Tch. Who am I to stop you?” Ratchet's words were gruff, but Optimus knew him well enough to recognise the warmth in the old bot's tone.

“I'm due to depart within the decacycle. I'll make sure I manage to drop by.”

“See that you do. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's the down-shift here, and I need to get some recharge before I shut down from exhaustion.”

“Sleep well, Ratchet,” Optimus said. He terminated the call and sat back in his chair. He felt a little better about his upcoming voyage already, even if only a bit. He would speak to Ratchet about Omega Supreme, and about the new generation of weapons of mass destruction that was Omega's legacy. Then maybe Optimus might have an inkling of what to do about his own beloved ship. 

He passed a hand over his face. It was approaching down-shift on Cybertron too. He looked out of the window to see the slow, steady dimming of the satellites, and the answering glow of the city's multicoloured lights brightening. Iacon was always online, but Optimus suddenly found himself in desperate need of recharge. 

He closed down his terminal and left his office, heading for the small suite of rooms just adjacent where he could power down for a while. He turned in for the night with a heavy spark. In the morning, he would begin to pick out the rest of the crew for the _Odyssey_ 's voyage. 

Ultra Magnus and Sentinel Prime could believe what they wanted, could believe they were sending him off into exile, on a wild goose chase, if they chose, but Optimus had other plans. He would find those Decepticons; he would bring Megatron back to face justice and he would face Starscream one more time. More importantly, he would recover his reputation and his honour, and he would win back his ship. 


	3. The Guardian

The sanctuary was still and silent. Nestled in a quiet glade within a gleaming silver forest, it was an oasis of tranquillity hidden deep in the heart of the city. It consisted of the practice hall or dojo, the protoform chamber and temple, and the simple living quarters Prowl had once called home, a long, long time ago. All stood in disrepair now, left to slowly sink into an even deeper silence.

Prowl had never thought he would see this place again.

Returned from death and without knowing why, Prowl had spent long months searching his absent spark for a purpose, for something that could justify the second chance he had been given. Over and over again he had found himself wanting – he had killed mechs, he had hunted bots for money, he had shared a home with the mech upon whom he had once sworn everlasting vengeance. He had found himself unworthy of the grace bestowed upon him, and had begun to succumb to self-loathing and despair.

Ironically, it had been the bounty-hunter, Yoketron's murderer himself, who had dragged Prowl out of that dark abyss. Lockdown had rebuilt him, given him a home and a job, and the freedom to walk away. In doing so, he had forced Prowl to confront the darkness inside himself, to confront it and own it. Lockdown had challenged Prowl to _live_ \- not to spend the time gifted to him searching for a way to pay the toll, but simply to grasp the chance and use it to the full. To do as he wished and take what he wanted, without apology.

Prowl had only just begun to understand what that could mean. He had taken what he wanted in the forest – he had wanted Cybertronian contact, wanted to connect with another soul. He had wanted to feel _alive_ , and not only from killing. And, in a perverse way that went against everything he thought he should feel, he had wanted Lockdown. He had led the bounty-hunter on a hectic chase through the sacred wood until Lockdown had caught him, and in a quiet clearing Prowl had allowed his walls to come down. During their coupling Prowl's sensors, heightened since his resurrection, had reached out and formed connections all around, leaving Prowl with a new and singular awareness of all the life around him, and the imprints that those lives left behind. It had left a spark-blue tint to everything he saw, and the sanctuary itself still glimmered as though picked out in starlight.

Prowl climbed the steps and crossed the threshold. Memories assailed him with every step he took, and the Allspark aura that lingered in his vision conjured ghosts before his optics. His chest ached at remembering, but he made himself put one foot in front of the other and advance deeper into the shadowy hall. Dust motes whirled and drifted in the silvery light that fell in shafts through the broken roof. The reflective chrome vines had crept their way inside the building, and Prowl could see them twining their way through the corners, the cracks in the walls, falling in a great swathe from a large gap in the ceiling. He could see and feel the gentle life pulsing within them. He brushed the curtain aside as he stepped forward. He had the strange feeling of being displaced in time, his memories seeming to exist in the same moment he walked through now.

The place was deathly silent. Prowl was tempted to explore more of the ancient, gently crumbling building, but he felt the silence and the stillness should not be broken. The old place had a dignity in death that Prowl himself had not managed to attain.

When he reached the door to the protoform chamber, he paused. The door was open just a crack.

He knew he left it closed when he had fled.

He took a cautious breath. It had been one million years. Anybot could have come and gone in that period. And yet... and yet, the structure of the sanctuary remained, seemingly untouched, and the protoform chamber had been the most secure and solid part of the complex. Only a cyberninja worthy of Yoketron's approval, worthy of a bust in the gallery, would be able to open that door. That wouldn't be so unlikely – the bots who were honoured there were still alive, any one of them could have stopped by in a million years to pay their respects. What was strange was that they had not sealed the portal behind them once more. It spoke of a careless disrespect.

Focusing enough to open the chamber door was easy. Once, it would have taken all his concentration, and taxed his spark and mind both. Now, he hummed softly and opened the vast door with but a thought.

Within, the room was in near perfect darkness. The roof had held, and it seemed the walls were intact as well. Despite the darkness, Prowl had no trouble making out the shapes of empty protoform pods lining the curving walls. His spark-sense touched everything, limning it in faint blue-white light. He stepped forward, and on the ground he saw the shapes of two mechs in repose, picked out in starlight. It was nothing but an echo, but Prowl felt the chill all the same.

Prowl knelt down in between the ghostly shapes. Around him, the sanctuary remained reverently still.

He knew both figures were Yoketron. One had the face Prowl had known for all the years he had lived and trained and learned under Yoketron's roof, while the second was the result of Prowl's own act of desecration, transferring his master's spark into a new protoform and thereby killing its potential to hold a new spark. Sacrificing the future to cling on to the past...

Prowl tried to reach out and touch the chest of the second ghost, but his fingers felt only a very slight sense of warmth. Only the echo of life lingered there, shimmering like a mirage.

Prowl closed his optics and bowed his head.

He had wandered very far from the path Yoketron intended for him.

He had abandoned the rest of the protoforms. After his master's death, he had fled in grief and despair, and spent the next million years cutting himself off from the world that had hurt him. If he had been less self-absorbed, less consumed with guilt and baffled pain, he might have gone in search of the protoforms that were taken, and safeguarded those left behind. He could have traced the stolen protoforms from the mech who had stolen them to whoever had bought them on – to Megatron himself. And if, just if, he had managed to take them back, then Megatron would never have built his behemoth battle-clones, and the battle of Detroit may never have happened. And Prowl, Prowl may never have died.

But the past was in the past, and there was nothing he could do now to change it. Prowl was alive _now_ , and he had learnt one lesson, at least. Holding onto a lost past could only jeopardise the future, and it was up to him to craft that future for himself.

He curled himself into a lotus pose. Outside in the courtyard, the very mech who had wrought all this destruction waited and paced and kept watch – the unlikeliest of guardians. Prowl's grief had resurfaced in this sacred place of memories, but something about the peaceful, warm aura that surrounded him neutralised the vengeful rage which usually followed. Revenge on Lockdown wouldn't bring Yoketron back. And being his partner...

Prowl's feelings were complicated. Out in the forest everything had seemed so easy. He was alive, and Allspark knew for how long. He had been granted a gift, not a curse, a chance to live free of his past mistakes and obligations – why shouldn't he experience all the joy and life the present could offer? But now, in the spectral presence of his late master, it was all too easy to feel shame for what he had done.

He drew in a deep, slow breath, and gently pulled his sensorfield closer to his frame. Yoketron's slumbering ghosts disappeared, and even though he kept his EM field synchronised to the air around him, to the frequency of the invisible Allspark pulse that infused everything, now he turned his senses inward. Concentrating on the rhythmic cycling of his intakes, he sank into a peaceful meditative state. There were questions he needed to find answers to, and conflicting emotions with which he had to find peace. His own efforts had failed, but maybe communion with the Allspark in the presence of a wise spirit would bring him some of the clarity and peace he sought.

 

* * *

 

 Outside, Lockdown paced back and forth at the base of the steps. He wished he had brought his blaster with him, instead of disassembling it for the sake of something to do. He had been feeling edgy ever since Prowl had drunkenly kissed him the night before, and he had been waiting for the backlash. So, when Prowl had descended the _Death's Head_ 's ramp that morning he had absently focused on taking the damn thing apart just so that he wouldn't give himself away. But then Prowl had kissed him again, and had said such things to him, and then everything had gotten all kinds of mixed up from there... Somewhere in all of that, he had clean forgotten about the gun. Now, as he paced up and down the eerily silent courtyard, optics and audios craning, jumping at every shadow, he felt dangerously and vulnerably under-armed. He couldn't explain what it was that put him on edge, when in the whole of the forest they hadn't seen a single spark, but his every hunter instinct, borne of a million years' experience, was screaming at him.

Perhaps it was just this place. Being back here after so long... yes, it brought back memories, and not many of them good ones. He had been a young bot when Yoketron took him in. That wasn't so unusual, the old bot liked to start them young, after all.

His brief time under Yoketron's tutelage had been difficult and fraught, and he had railed against his own inadequacy and Yoketron's discipline both. His lack of any kind of natural aptitude for what he called Yoketron's “spiritual mumbo-jumbo” had only added to his master's disappointment. Really, the whole thing had been doomed from the start.

Still, he'd never thought when he ran away that one day he would be the cause of the old master's death.

Something rustled in the trees behind him. He spun around, his optics narrow, and glared into the crystalline clusters of the branches. A breeze set them to moving, jingling as they brushed against one another, but he saw no enemy. He flared his field out as wide as he could, sensors scanning for rogue signals. There was a lot of interference this close to the city, with the high density of spark signals meshing together to form a cloud of life-signs that did all kinds of things to mess up a bot's scanners. Still, he transformed his arm into a saw, and shifted his posture. Every instinct told him he wasn't alone.

He held himself motionless. Maybe some of that blasted ninja training had rubbed off on him after all, because he kept his intakes silent, and waited on the necessity to strike. He thought he saw glimpses of gleaming armour through the darkly reflective trees, sparkling flashes of white and gold. He thought of Ghost, and wondered if the stowaway had followed them even here.

The attack, when it came, was from behind. A figure sprang from the sanctuary roof and landed hard on Lockdown's back, making him stumble and fall to one knee. He snarled and reacted with all the speed his training and, more importantly, his long years of experience had ingrained in him. His saw arm fired up with an awful buzz and he swiped at the assailant he couldn't yet see. His enemy was gone before he could hit him, and his saw sheared through nothing but air. A moment later and the blade of a sword clashed with it, and was wrenched aside. Lockdown snarled and lunged with his hook. The other mech darted backward, skating gracefully on wheels in his elegant feet. Lockdown caught a glimpse of him before he transformed and swept around him. Lockdown swore, and looked up to the roof. The mech had leapt back up there to get away from Lockdown's saw, and now stood aiming a shining sword's point at the hunter's head. He looked down at Lockdown with an arrogant challenge in his sky blue optics.

“You're not welcome here, bounty hunter! You're treading on sacred ground.”

The bot on the roof was a sleek and beautiful Autobot, his armour white and red with golden flecks that caught the optic and drew it to every line of his smooth and dangerous curves. There was a sword at his hip and an empty sheath on the other, and a larger blade upon his back. He looked every inch an Autobot, but there was something in the sharp angle of his jaw, in the cold light of his eyes, that hinted at a more dangerous foe than the slender young bot appeared.

“I ain't goin' anywhere, mech,” Lockdown said. “Didn't come here for a fight, but if you want one that's what you'll get.”

“Huh!” The mech lowered his sword and cast his cool gaze around the courtyard. “Where's your playmate?”

Lockdown's hackles rose anew. Just how long had this whelp been trailing them? Had he seen...?

Well, so what if he had? It was nobot's business but his and Prowl's. It wasn't his problem if some stiff-lipped Autobot sparkling got his sensibilities offended.

“Not here. And I wouldn't risk tryin' it with him, to be honest. He's a lot less gentle than I am,” Lockdown said with a smirk. His saw was powered down but still transformed, and ready to fire into life at a moment's thought. The bot on the roof was frowning at him. He stepped forward, and then jumped lithely down onto the top step. Behind him, the doors stood open. The mech seemed to notice the open doors for the first time. His optics flickered, only slightly, and Lockdown knew he was about to bolt.

He must have given something away himself, because a nanoklik later that blade was up again and pointed at his face. Lockdown scowled. Like Pit he was going to let an Autobot walk in and mess up whatever Prowl was doing in there. Unicron knew what the kid would find... ah, slag. Lockdown wouldn't wish it on anybot.

His optics followed the length of the blade, from the frighteningly steady tip all the way along its keen edge, up to the grip. It wasn't an elaborate weapon, plain except for a few glyphs on the blade, but now that he could see it up close, Lockdown recognised it.

He wasn't very good with names or faces, but he never forgot a mod.

“I know you,” he said. He saw the bot's optics become round, saw the denial form on his lips. “I remember this sword.”

The bot sneered. “Fine,” he said. “At least that answers one question – you're _not_ here to try and get this bounty again.”

Lockdown chuckled. “Mech, your bounty dried up orns ago. That's a pretty good reformat job you got. Same colours, though. Same lines, now that I look at you.” He deactivated his saw , and slowly held up his hands. “Really didn't come here for a fight.”

The Autobot snorted. “You expect me to believe you came here for – what? Spiritual enlightenment?”

“I didn't, but my partner did.” He nodded toward the door. “He's in there. Raise that blade against him, though, and you're scrap metal.”

The mech studied him for a long moment, felt like half a klik. Then his expression changed to one of curious understanding. “You actually mean it, don't you? You're really not here working?”

Lockdown gave him a rough smile. “My last bounty got away, figured it was time for a little down-time. Besides... the kid wanted to come.”

The mech shifted his stance and visibly stood down, although his EM field sill felt wary. He slid his sword back into the sheath at his hip. He stepped back and glanced into the building, his line of sight through the shadowed training room and to the vestibule at the rear, where a round door stood-

“Open?” He moved to bolt, and Lockdown grabbed him and bore him heavily to the ground. The Autobot thrashed and tried to throw him off, but the hunter used his heavier weight to pin him down. “You lying, cheating Decepticon scum-”

Lockdown snarled right against his audio. “You an' I both know I never got that brand. Unlike _you_. So you can quit your high and mighty act, _Deadlock_.”

“It's _Drift_ now,” he hissed. “Now get off me. I'm not going to hurt your partner – I just-! Only a trained cyberninja can open that door. And Springer said-”

“Like I give a slag what any of your Autobot buddies say. Now, am I gonna have to knock you out?”

“...No.” Drift grit his teeth and glared up over his shoulder. Now that Lockdown could see him up close, those glacial blue optics looked incongruous in a face he had seen long ago lit with a Decepticon crimson light. Some details were still the same as his old quarry's, such as the disgusted, angry sneer that now marred the pretty Autobot's smooth and handsome face.

“Anybot ever told you you make a lousy Autobot?” the hunter said as he got off the smaller mech and rose back to his feet.

“All the time,” Drift replied. He stood as well, and rubbed a crick from the side of his neck. They stared at one another warily, neither one sure if they should be trying to kill the other. After a few kliks, Lockdown sighed and pulled a box from his subspace. He opened it, and offered one of the cygars inside to the former Decepticon. Drift looked at the box, and then looked at Lockdown as though expecting a trap.

Lockdown clicked his teeth and said, “C'mon, kid. I got no interested in a fight I'm not gettin' paid for. Last time I checked, the bounty was on Deadlock's helm, anyhow. Ain't never heard of anybot bot named Drift.”

Cautiously, the younger mech took one of the cygars. Lockdown lit it for him, and then one for himself, and then sat down on one of the short, squat pillars at the side of the staircase that led down from the door. Pinkish smoke wreathed around him as he bent his head and inhaled energon-infused fumes. They scented the cool forest air with a sweet and smoky aroma. Above him at the top of the steps, Drift took a deep breath, and then stuck the cygar in his mouth. He descended the steps and took a perch on the opposite pillar to the hunter.

“So,” Lockdown said at length. Drift watched the smoke from their cygars spiral on the breeze, twining into a single cloud above and between them. The tension of their aborted battle fizzled away as the two warriors shared a quiet smoke. “'S been a long time.”

“Not long enough, some bots say,” Drift replied. When Lockdown finally looked up he saw Drift tap the red symbol on his chest. “The brand is still underneath. Can't get rid of it without removing the plate. Tch... I don't know about you, but I didn't want Autobots getting close enough to my spark to make _that_ upgrade.” He took a slow draw on his cygar, and then coughed. “Eight, nine hundred years is the blink of an optic, they'd tell you. Definitely not long enough to tell if a turncoat has really had a change of spark, or if he's just waiting for the right time to strike.”

“Don't need to tell me about Autobots bein' stuck up, self-righteous glitches,” Lockdown said. “Even if sometimes they've got their reasons.” He glanced into the sanctuary. The morning was wearing on now, and he wondered if he should go and check on Prowl. The thought crossed his mind that maybe Prowl had simply left – slipped out the back of the building and made for the city, for his friends and the life he had been forced to leave behind. Lockdown wouldn't even have blamed him. Confronted up close with the still-raw memory of what Lockdown had done, not many bots would stick around. He got a strange ache in his chest thinking from about it. He would check in a while... he wasn't sure if he was confident, or if he hoped to delay the inevitable moment of finding the ninjabot gone.

“So what the frag are you doing here?” he asked Drift instead. “Last time I saw you, you were sailin' away on a stolen pirate ship after blowin' up half of _my_ ship. This,” he gestured to the peaceful glade, the sacred sanctuary, “doesn't really seem like your scene. What happened?”

Drift blew smoke upward, tilting his head back and exposing the tempting lines of his throat. He sat half curled on the pillar, as though poised to spring into action, always ready to strike or to flee. One leg was drawn up, his knee tucked to his chest, and he curled his arm around it. “It's too long a story to tell right now,” he said. “Or maybe ever. But the short version is that I died.”

“Doesn't seem to stop a mech these days,” Lockdown muttered.

“Or at least, I nearly did,” Drift continued unprompted. “I was hardly the only Decepticon deserter back then, but with Megatron gone and the war all but lost, I guess I didn't see much point in carrying on. Bounty hunters everywhere I turned, the Elite Guard moving into the Empire so even the old refugee places were off-limits... it was no way to live. So, when I was rescued and repaired by a group of friendly Autobots, I decided I'd seen the light.” He smiled wryly. “Ironically, it was another hunter that brought me here.” He gestured to the sanctuary with a nod of his head. “Here, I can at least do something good. I can learn to be... better.”

“What a load of slag,” Lockdown scoffed. “The place is a derelict pile of junk.”

“We're rebuilding it,” Drift said defensively. “Bit by bit...” He fixed Lockdown with an earnest stare, and his smile disappeared. “It's never too late, you know. I know you were an Autobot once. It's never too late to find redemption.”

Lockdown only laughed. “Don't spout that righteous slag to me, Decepticon,” he said. “Even Prowl knows better than to try that on me. Not everybot's interested in saving their spark.” Drift's optics darkened with something somewhere between sadness and resentment. “Autobots saved you, so you're swallowin' their doctrine 'cause you feel like you owe 'em. Heh, maybe you _are_ an Autobot now. Any Decepticon I know would at least be honest enough to admit the truth.”

Drift scowled and turned away. “Believe whatever you want,” he said stiffly. “There are some bots who trust me. Trust me enough to guard the sanctuary while they're away-”

“Fine job you're doing of that, by the way.”

“You know, maybe you don't want to fight, but that doesn't stop _me_.” Drift's hand hovered over the hilt of one of his swords.

“Sure the Guard'll be happy to know you killed one o' their favourite Decepticon hunters,” Lockdown drawled. A thousand stellar cycles may be the blink of an optic in Cybertronian terms, but it had been enough to earn himself a reputation as a reliable tool for rounding up and bringing in stray 'Cons who managed to evade the Elite Guard's own unsubtle measures. “I wonder, do they know about you, though? Do they know they're harbouring a Decepticon?”

“I'm an _Autobot_ -!” He was on his feet, and his sword was half way out of its sheath, when a movement at the door halted them both. Two sets of optics, one blue and one red, turned to look.

In the doorway stood Prowl. A faint blue-white light seemed to shine and flicker around him, and his optics burned as bright as any spark.

Prowl's optics found Lockdown, though his gaze seemed glazed and far away. He took another step forward, and then he stumbled. Lockdown was on his feet, but Prowl steadied himself. The light in his optics dimmed to a more normal intensity, and he focused on the hunter.

”You all right, Prowl?” Lockdown said cautiously.

“I-” Prowl's gaze slid to Drift. “Who is this?”

“Prowl?” Drift asked. “Wait a klik. You're – you're _the_ Prowl? Yoketron's last student?”He ran a hand over his brow, his optics round and wide and a grin spreading across his face, his anger at Lockdown disappearing as quickly as it had flared. “Oh wow. Hey, you know, you're a legend. I never expected Lockdown's partner to be somebot like _you_ -”

“You know this mech?” Prowl asked Lockdown warily.

“Heh.” Lockdown rubbed the back of his neck. “Prowl, this is Deadlock. Drift. He's the bounty that got away.”

“One of them,” Prowl said archly. He gave Drift a look that seemed to pierce right through him, and Drift trembled, feeling like the ninjabot's spark-blue gaze revealed more than he showed upon the surface. Almost like he could see right through to his rotten, jaded spark. “You're an Autobot.”

Drift nodded, discomfited but wanting to make a good impression all the same. Prowl may be the partner of a bounty hunter and a lowlife, but he was _Prowl_ – the hero from the battle of Earth, and Yoketron's final student. Everyone said that he had died, sacrificing his own spark to save the Prime and the city. It was said that his spark became one with the Allspark, transcending the mortal world and becoming a part of the divine energy that made up all life on Cybertron and flowed like a current throughout the universe. Drift had seen the holo-images. Now he was close enough to see him clearly, he would have recognised him anywhere.

“I'm the Guardian of the Sanctuary. Well, at least, right now I am. The others left to-... well, it doesn't matter. ...Are you okay?” Prowl was swaying on his feet, and when he stumbled again both Lockdown and Drift put out their hands to steady him.

“Energon,” Prowl said. “Is there somewhere here I could rest?” Drift noticed the slightly smaller bot was trembling, just a little. Whatever he had been doing inside the protoform chamber, it had drained him.

“You got into the back room,” he said. “That's where the others said the protoforms used to be kept. I've never been able to get in there... I said it should have been the first place we restored, but nobot else seemed interested. Devcon says it's all a waste of time, Springer humours me I guess, only Dai Atlas-”

“Don't babble at him,” Lockdown interrupted. He gently pulled Prowl away from Drift's supporting hold, and swung him into his arms instead. “Do you have somewhere he can rest or not?”

Duly chastised, Drift hunched sulkily and said, “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Follow me.”

Drift led Lockdown and Prowl away from the courtyard and around the side of the building, picking his way along a meandering path through an overgrown cyber-garden. At the end of the path, almost hidden by metallic foliage and energon-pink crystal blossoms, was a small, low building with a round door half-hidden by silvery vines. “The main hab block is still being restored,” Drift explained. “But I've made this little place my own.”

Prowl was just awake enough to take in his surroundings before Lockdown carried him beneath the curtain of vines and through the portal. It had been a storage building, once, he thought.

Inside, however, Drift clearly had made the place his own, just as he said. It was spotlessly clean, and the few items of furniture were laid out with careful precision, presumably positioned with the beneficial flow of energy in mind. The main room wasn't large, but there was a table and some stools, and storage cabinets for energon and other necessities. At the rear of the small building an area had been partitioned off with decorative screens, and this was where Lockdown carried Prowl, at Drift's instruction. Behind the screen was a low, flat berth with clean white regulator-blankets. Lockdown lay Prowl down upon the berth, despite Prowl's half-hearted, mumbled protests.

“Listen kid,” the hunter said. “I don't know what kinda optic quest hocus-pocus you did back there, but whatever it was has done a number on you.”

“I had to...” Prowl closed his optics. “I was looking for answers.”

“Yeah? And did you get any?”

“No...” In truth, the vision he had had while meditating in the protoform chamber had been indistinct, as if the images and sensations were occurring just out of his reach. He had hoped for a sense of peace within himself, but he had only emerged with yet more questions. In fact there was only one thing he was clear about. “Master Yoketron.” Lockdown froze. “I want to find his tomb...”

Lockdown took a deep breath and stood up straight. Prowl allowed himself to sink into the softness of Drift's berth. Recharge was beckoning, but he didn't want to black out now.

Drift came behind the screen carrying a cube of energon. Lockdown stood back to lurk in the corner while the white mech perched on the side of the bed and helped Prowl to drink some of the sweet fuel, supporting his head and holding the cube for him. Prowl took a sip, swallowed, and then took another. He didn't remember ever feeling this weak, but after a few kliks of slowly and carefully sipping at the mid-grade Drift fed him he already started to feel more like himself.

He took another sip, and then he looked up. His optics met Drift's over the rim of the cube, and the other mech's pale faceplates flushed a light energon pink. Drift turned away, taking the almost empty cube away and putting it on a low table beside the berth.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

Prowl nodded. He gingerly sat himself up and leant his back against the wall. “Thank you. I was trying to... commune with the Allspark.” Lockdown gave a derisive snort, but Drift's optics immediately began to shine with awe. “I'm afraid it didn't give me much in the way of answers.” The images he had seen were blurred, but he thought back on them now. There had been a city, or perhaps two cities – one in clean white and silver beneath a bright blue sky, and the other, broken black towers beneath roiling clouds of red. A tower, and a sky filled with dark winged shapes. A frozen pool, its hard surface a dark mirror.

He tilted his head back and closed his optics. Eventually he opened them again and looked to the side. Lockdown stood with hunched shoulders, his arms folded and his optics down. Prowl's feelings when he looked at the mech were still undecided. Just joors ago he had been faced with the stark and brutal legacy of the bounty hunter's actions – their dead master's shade, the empty protoform pods. So much pain and violence. But now, a million years later, that same mech was his partner, the same bot who had kept him and patiently, doggedly brought him back to the world of the living. It would have been so easy for him to leave him in his crypt, so easy to sell him off to somebot on Andala and take the profits and leave, getting rid of a difficult and hateful piece of baggage. Instead they had travelled together, and they had fought together. He didn't have to like the mech to acknowledge at least that much.

He reached out his hand. After a moment, Lockdown looked up. “Master Yoketron's tomb will be nearby. We need to pay our respects,” Prowl said. Lockdown held his gaze. To Prowl it seemed a world of resentment, shame, and hatred burned within his optics. Prowl said softly, “If you feel even the slightest bit of shame for what you did, you will come with me.”

Drift looked back and forth between them with narrowed optics, but he remained mute.

At length, Lockdown nodded. His face was grim, and his shoulders stayed tense and hunched, but he nodded, and Prowl relaxed.

Vengeance was a cold and hollow victory, Prowl decided. Life was too short to trap himself in a cycle of hatred and revenge, however many lives Primus chose to give him. His death had taught him that much – his death, and the fact that the one bot who had brought him reluctantly back to the living world had been his only nemesis. Maybe it was cosmic irony, maybe it was a lesson. All he could do was learn from it. He offered Lockdown the very faintest of smiles.

The hunter stepped closer. Prowl reached up for him, and Lockdown awkwardly gave him his hand.

“So, Drift,” Prowl said. Lockdown moved to the side of the berth and leant against the wall there. Prowl, strangely grateful for his proximity, kept a gentle hold on the curve of his hook. “Guardian of the Sanctuary?”

Drift laughed softly. “Well, somebot's got to look after the place. I'm learning the cyberninja arts from Dai Atlas, when he has the time...”

“I see. I apologise for intruding, but we were in the area. Both Lockdown and I used to train here...”

“I know. I mean, I know about you...” Drift's optics flickered uncertainly between Prowl and the hunter. Something in Lockdown's face must have warned him against saying more, because he checked himself and instead asked, “How did you get here? I mean... everybot said you were dead.”

Prowl leaned back against the wall and smiled. Together, he and Lockdown told the story – of Prowl's uncertain resurrection after Lockdown found him in the tomb, of his slow return to himself after months as a feral, desperate creature. Of Andala, Whipcord, and Ghost. The orbital cycle wore on, and Drift, fascinated, had to fetch more fuel for all of them as Prowl continued to talk. When at last he reached their landing upon Cybertron, he skipped over his and the hunter's dalliance in the forest and shrugged slightly, smiling over the edge of his fresh energon cube. Outside, the evening drew in, and the cool, dark light of the down-shift lent Drift's refuge an unearthly, soothing glow.

“And that's it,” Prowl said at last and spread his hands. Drift's optics glowed brightly with wonder.

“Wow,” he breathed. “It's so amazing that you're here. Maybe now we can open up the rest of the place, if you can open those doors...”

“It seems this 'restoration' hasn't progressed very far,” Prowl said. “Most the compound looks as though it hasn't been touched in a million stellar cycles.”

Drift looked sheepish. “Atlas talks a lot about restoring the place, trying to raise money and stuff. But he's not really here a lot. He took a walk around the whole compound and made me write down all the things that needed doing, then he said he'd hire some workmechs to come and start on renovations. I don't think he even went into half the buildings. I... I asked to stay and look after the place until he could get back. I figured I could try to get to know the place a little better, so that when he comes back I can show him exactly what needs fixing, and maybe... I don't know, maybe fix some things up myself. Thought maybe he would be proud.” Prowl nodded but said nothing. “But Ultra Magnus keeps him really busy, I guess. He said he had retired, but all this business about a Decepticon break-out...” He rubbed the back of his helm nervously. “The protoform-chamber door has been locked up since the Master's funeral, I think. I tried to open some of the sealed doors while Atlas was away, but...”

“You haven't completed your training,” Prowl finished for him. Drift looked embarrassed.

“I can't do any of it... I mean, I try _really_ hard, and I know Dai Atlas is disappointed, but-”

Prowl held up his hand. “It's all right. It took me a long time to learn processor-over-matter as well. Master Yoketron sent me on an optics quest, but it wasn't until a million years later that I really learnt how to do it. I had a very patient teacher.” He was silent for a moment, and then he said, “Why didn't Jazz or any of the others try to open the place up?”

Drift shrugged. “Jazz is always on Earth, or else at the Fortress on Guard business. The others, if they're ever on-world... I don't know. Maybe they thought it was better. Keep the past buried where it belongs...?”

Prowl's optics darkened. “They just left it all there to rust.”

“I think they wanted to keep the whole place as a kind of a... memorial.” Prowl bowed his head.

Lockdown rubbed the back of his neck and paced back and forth. “Even I know that ain't right,” he said. “Seal everything away and hope nobot asks about it? Pretend nothin' ever happened...”

Two sets of cyan optics followed the old hunter's restless movements. Prowl decided to leave him to his thoughts, at least for now. “Drift. Can we stay here...? At least until after we've paid our respects-”

“Of course,” Drift said enthusiastically. “Stay as long as you want. Should I contact Jazz or Dai Atlas? They're probably in the city-”

“No.” Prowl held up his hand, and Lockdown watched him. “I'd rather keep our presence here... quiet, for now. As you know, I'm listed as a dead mech. It would raise all manner of questions, I'm sure.”

“Not even the Prime?”

There was a tension in the room, palpable, as the hunter waited for Prowl's answer.

“...He's here?”

Drift frowned. “Actually, Atlas mentioned something about him being deployed off somewhere at the rim. Decepticon uprisings, or something.” He shrugged. “I'm sure it's nothing to worry about, but he's got that fancy new ship, I suppose they just wanted him to go and make a big impression, you know?”

“Optimus Prime is away at the galactic rim?” Prowl said. Drift nodded. Prowl's optics met Lockdown's, and one name hung unspoken between them, both of them knowing just where the Prime and the Autobot flagship would have been sent. New Kaon.

“So you can stay as long as you want,” Drift finished. He got up from the berth and collected their empty cubes. He moved away into the main room to clean them up, leaving Prowl and Lockdown alone behind the screen.

An awkward silence stretched on, punctuated only by the tinkling of the cubes as Drift washed up. Eventually, Prowl got up from the berth, annoyed with the hunter's guilty silence.

“Hey, kid, don't- you're drained.” Lockdown's hand rested on Prowl's chest as he tried to push Prowl back onto the berth.

“I'm fine,” Prowl said. His hand came up to cover Lockdown's. “Listen. I'm not going to try to kill you again. I'm not going to leave, either.”

“But- Yoketron. This place-”

“I know.” Prowl's voice was steely, and his optics burned with blue fire as he stared up at the hunter. “I _know_. I haven't forgiven you. I don't know if I ever will.” Lockdown swallowed thickly, and his optics flickered. He was about to look away, but Prowl reached up and grabbed his chin, and forced him to look at him. “If you want to make amends, help me to put things right,” he said, his voice hard. “We will visit our master's tomb, and then you will help me track down what happened to all of the protoforms. I know most of them went to Megatron – how else would he and Starscream make their clones? But you didn't take all of them. There _were_ some left. But something happened. Maybe they were destroyed. But there was something the Allspark was trying to tell me in my vision, and I can't... I can't think what else it could be if it's not that.” He let go of Lockdown and turned away to start to pace. “Why else would I come back?” Lockdown watched him silently. “There has to be a reason I've come back, there has to be a _purpose_ -”

Lockdown interrupted by grabbing Prowl's wrist and pulling him close. He moved his hand up to cup the back of Prowl's head, and then he leant down and claimed Prowl's mouth in a sudden kiss. Prowl's words died on his glossa and he closed his optics. Lockdown's other arm wrapped around his waist and pulled him flush against the hunter's larger frame.

When at last Lockdown pulled his mouth away, Prowl's frame felt warm and soothed, but his processor remained as restless and anxious as before. He wondered if he should pull away – was it too disrespectful, to kiss his master's murderer within throwing distance of the place where he died?

“One thing at a time,” Lockdown murmured. He closed his optics and nuzzled Prowl's cheek. Prowl ducked his head and rested the front of his helm against the hunter's chest.

“Why did you do it?” he whispered. “Why _did_ you...?” He shuddered, feeling weak. “You said – if that was hard, then everything else was easy. If it was so hard, then _why_?” He was breaking down, all of a sudden. All of his careful control, his will, was crumbling. For so long, he had clung to his self-hatred and his anger, and the thirst for revenge had given him the strength to keep on fighting, keep on hating. But now he had died and been reborn, and he had sat in the silence of the chamber where everything had started and searched himself, and what he had found was forgiveness. Forgiveness for himself, and, in spite of his words, forgiveness for the monster that now held him. Now that all his hatred and anger were stripped away, he was left only with the lingering pain.

Lockdown kept his vocals low, too quiet for Drift, in the other “room” to hear.

“You're right, it wasn't easy. But I know nothing can change what I did, so I never bothered lookin' for anybot to forgive it.” He kept his optics closed and whispered against Prowl's audio. “I'm not gonna give you excuses. The truth is I was a young bot with no hope. Yoketron took me in 'cause it was either that or the Stockade, an' Unicron knows he tried. Back then I thought he was just a stuffy old glitch who liked to keep bots like me under his thumb.” He sighed, but he didn't let go of Prowl. Prowl remained still, his face pressed against Lockdown's chest. The pulsing warmth of his spark, just below the metal, helped to keep Prowl calm. “I was a lousy student. I already knew how to fight, on the street. Yoketron taught me a few new techniques, but all the spiritual stuff... I couldn't get it. I just wasn't cut out for that kind of slag, and we both knew it. I thought it was just a matter of time before he gave up on me an' handed me back to the Guard. Figured it'd be Trypticon or death. End o' the line, either way. I was desperate and stupid, and drove with a rough crowd, even after the old bot took me in. But then somebot from my old gang gave me an out – a mech he knew was lookin' for somebot to do a job for him, said he'd pay real well. Well, you know what kinda mech that was. The kind with a brand.” He shook his head. “I knew I had to get off Cybertron and quick – anything looked better'n years in the Stockade, and since I was already a criminal, I figured it didn't matter.”

He unwrapped his arms from around Prowl and sat down on the edge of the berth. He rested his elbows on his knees, and hunched his shoulder. Prowl hugged himself and watched him, feeling cold, robbed of the steady soothing warmth of the hunter's spark.

“Yoketron wasn't dead when I left.” The old hunter's vocals sounded rough and hoarse. “He wasn't even meant to be there. He said he had a meetin' with somebot at the Metroplex, so I figured I could be in an' out without a fight. I'd grab the protoforms and get out, an' be halfway to the rim before the old bot even knew I was gone.”

“But he was there,” Prowl said softly.

Lockdown gave a grim nod. “I wasn't workin' alone, so there was nothin' I could do when we got there and Yoketron hadn't left – slag it, he was good, but there were five of us, me an' four mercs brought in just for that job. Tried to get him to just stand down, but....” He shrugged and then sighed. “He wasn't dead when we left. I figured he'd be all right...”

“You obviously didn't care all that much, considering you still took the protoforms! Didn't you care what would happen to them?”

Lockdown looked up at him and now his optics blazed with anger. “What was I meant to do, by then? The Decepticon that hired me had me by the sparkplugs, an' the Guard would've executed me for a Decepticon if they caught me. I picked exile instead. I figured I'd shown what kinda spark I had, what kinda bot I was...”

“So you embraced it,” Prowl said coldly. Lockdown nodded.

“If I was a criminal and a murderer, then that was what I might as well be. Huntin's good enough money, and it kept me far enough from Cybertron to stay off the Guard's radar. The 'Con that hired me for that first job gave me an in, and pretty soon it was easy to pick up a job here or there. Saved the credits for a ship, somebot I worked with for a while showed me how to rip off mods to get stronger, and do better... Few thousand years later I even started to enjoy it.” His face contorted in a sneer, black and white tattoos twisting. “And here I am, a million years later, right back where it all slaggin' started.”

Prowl padded back to the berth. Beyond the screen, the sounds of washing up and tidying had changed to silence. Prowl stood before the hunter with sadness in his optics.

“I never told you I was a good mech, Prowl,” Lockdown said. “I never tried to fool you.”

“No,” Prowl said. “You couldn't, anyway. I can see right through you.”

He sat down at Lockdown's side and put his hand on the hunter's thigh. He didn't say anything more, but after a moment Lockdown turned to him and wrapped his arm around Prowl's shoulders. Prowl let him pull him close, and when he kissed him he opened his mouth and moulded his frame against the hunter's. The kiss was hot and yearning, a million years of pain between them. Prowl's hand rested over Lockdown's chest, and he remembered the surging, bright light and power of his spark he had felt just joors before. It was there still, hot and alive. Lockdown kissed him like a starving mech, holding onto him with a tight, hard grip and kissing him deeply, kissing him hard. Prowl held onto him and it made him feel real and alive. It was solace, for the both of them.

“I lied, before,” Prowl murmured against the hunter's lips. Lockdown grunted a wordless question, and Prowl whispered, “I think I do... forgive you.”

Lockdown didn't say anything, but he did kiss him again. Less hard, less desperate, this time he was the one clinging, this time Prowl was the anchor. Prowl wondered if he had lost his mind, but the truth remained – the past was past, and vengeance was meaningless. All they could do was try to move forward, try to make right what they could, and try to each help the other fix what was broken. Try to make it right.

Lockdown was easing Prowl down onto the berth when the silence was broken by an awkward cough. They stilled, broke apart, and looked up. Drift stood by the end of the screen, his faceplates pink and his optics shining. He had removed his swords from his hips and from his back, and stood now unarmed.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “I, uh...”

Prowl disentangled himself from Lockdown and stood up. He brushed down his armour, cleared his throat, and tried to regain some semblance of his composure. Lockdown remained sitting on the berth, watching Prowl with ravenous, adoring optics.

“I apologise,” Prowl said. “That was completely inappropriate. We'll return to our ship at once.”

“All right...” Drift said. “But you could... stay. If you wanted to.” His gaze flickered uncertainly from Prowl to Lockdown and back. Prowl reached out and felt the warmth of the young bot's EM field, the yearning of his spark inside his chest. “It...” Drift rubbed the back of his helm. “It gets pretty lonely here when Dai Atlas is away.”

“I see...” Prowl glanced at the hunter. It was the down-shift. Yoketron had slumbered for a million years, he could wait one more night. And besides, Prowl didn't really want to leave the garden refuge, the warmth and comfort, the sanctuary within a sanctuary. He almost felt that if he did leave, whatever understanding he and Lockdown had come to would evaporate, as if the spell would break as soon as they walked out the door. Prowl, who had been lonely for so long since he came back online, didn't want to give it up. Lockdown looked at him and shrugged. He was leaving the decision to Prowl.

Prowl looked back at Drift. After a hesitant moment, a small smile graced his face. “We would be glad to stay,” he said. Nerves made his fuel tank flutter, but Drift's face lit up. He moved closer to Prowl, moving slowly, as if not to frighten him away. His optics shone, and he cautiously lifted a hand to the side of Prowl's helm.

“I heard all about you, you know,” he murmured. “You're really something.”

The berth creaked, and then Lockdown was standing behind Prowl, the warmth of his frame solid and hard against his back. His hand caressed the side of Prowl's neck, then his jaw, and he gently tilted his head. He nuzzled the angle of Prowl's cheek, and as Drift leaned in and gently touched his lips to Prowl's, the hunter bit down on Prowl's neck. Prowl gasped at the heady contrast of sensations, soft and hard, tender and intense. His hands rested upon Drift's slim waist, and the lithe mech stepped closer. Prowl was pressed in between the two mechs' bodies, and he felt the steady throbbing pulse of both their sparks thrumming through him, bleeding warmth into his hollow frame.

Drift gained confidence gradually, and the kiss deepened. Prowl melted into it, his glossa sliding against Drift's languorously. Lockdown kneaded Prowl's waist and hip, and continued to bite and suck on the cables of his neck. He licked his way up to Prowl's audio, and then growled and bit the back of his neck in a way that made Prowl whimper.

Suddenly the hunter grabbed one of Prowl's boosters and jerked him backward. Prowl stumbled, and a moment later he found himself in Lockdown's lap. Lockdown sat at the head of the bed, his back to the wall, with Prowl draped over him. Prowl arched and tilted his head up for a kiss, and ground his aft down. Drift, left standing alone, hovered uncertainly for a moment before Lockdown beckoned him with his hook. The white mech crawled slowly onto the berth and toward the two hunters, and Prowl, watching him, was struck by the lithe and predatory grace the bot had – he really was a cyberninja, he thought, even if his training was incomplete. He reached out when Drift got to him, and Lockdown made room for him by spreading Prowl's legs, hooking them over his own. Drift nuzzled in against Prowl's jaw, and Prowl guided him into a kiss with his hands on the back of Drift's helm. Lockdown rubbed his chassis, and then Drift's back. Prowl tilted his head back when Drift moved his kisses to his throat, and he rested the back of his helm against Lockdown's shoulder, between two spikes. He moaned, optics closed, feeling warm and languid. The twin beats of Lockdown and Drift's sparks seemed to send pulses of pleasurable energy through Prowl's frame, and his body responded. The rhythmic pulsing went straight to his valve, which now throbbed hotly. Drift pressed in between his legs, and Prowl moaned softly as their hips ground together. He was acutely aware of the heat of both mechs' panels, and he had to bite his lip as he thought about both their spikes swelling behind their covers.

He raised his arms and held onto Lockdown's neck as Drift slid down his body, trailing kisses over the smooth curve of his chest. Lockdown rumbled in appreciation, watching over his shoulder and rubbing at his chest and waist. Drift glanced up, and then ducked his head back down to lick over Prowl's panel. Prowl hissed and his hips jerked.

“Open up, kid,” Lockdown growled into his audio, sending a chill down Prowl's back.

Prowl's panel clicked open without hesitation, and his spike sprang up. His valve glistened wetly and tingled, and he whined, feeling exposed. Drift licked lightly at his spike, and Lockdown leered down at him.

“C'mon Deadlock. I know you can do better than that. I remember how much you like it.”

“It's _Drift_.” The slim mech didn't let his annoyance stop him from taking Prowl's spike deep into his throat on the first gulp. Prowl stiffened, letting out an undignified yelp and clinging onto Lockdown tightly. Drift moaned, as though nothing could have made him happier than having Prowl's spike in his mouth. Behind Prowl, Lockdown hummed in appreciation as he watched. His hand wandered from Prowl's middle to Drift's head, to pet and caress the pointed finials of his helm.

“You... mm. You weren't just a bounty, were you?” Prowl asked shakily. Drift flicked his glimmering blue gaze up at him, his mouth still full, and Lockdown answered for him.

“This one didn't wanna part with his swords,” Lockdown rumbled. “An' you know me, I like my trophies.”

Drift's fingers nudged between Prowl's legs, and Lockdown's hand returned to Prowl's chest to caress and knead. Prowl felt hot, and his optics were burning spark-bright blue once more. Drift swallowed, and then lifted his head away from Prowl's length. His lips were glistening and looked soft. Prowl leaned forward and caught them with his own before the mech could speak, and Drift surprised him with a growl and grabbed the back of his neck. Prowl's sensornet prickled with a hot thrill. He remembered what Lockdown had said – Drift was a bounty that got away. Lockdown had called him “Deadlock”.

Lockdown shifted Prowl, lifting him up onto his knees, and then his thick fingers rubbed against his valve, working their way between the slick folds. Prowl knew he was wet, and couldn't find it in himself to feel ashamed. Drift knelt in front of him, holding his neck and his helm in a gentle but firm hold, tangling his tongue with Prowl's. Prowl's intakes were coming quick, but he held onto his thoughts even as Lockdown slipped two fingers inside him.

“D-Drift.” He pressed his hand against the symbol on Drift's chest, the red badge that meant he was an ally, safe, a friend.

“Mm?” Drift opened up his panel and let his spike extend. He covered Prowl's hand with his own, and then moved it down to touch his spike. Prowl wrapped his fingers around it without a thought.

Lockdown grunted in impatience, and gripped Prowl's hip. He shifted a little, and Prowl heard another click of the hunter's panel opening up, and then he was being guided back, and down. Drift stopped kissing him so he could watch as the hunter lowered Prowl onto his thick length. Prowl reached forward and clung onto Drift's shoulders. Drift gave him a smile that was distinctly un-Autobot, and reached down to rub Prowl's spike at the same time as he was slowly filled from behind. Prowl's fingers scrabbled against Drift's mirror-smooth plating, and Drift steadied him by pressing closer, his chest against Prowl's.

“What is it?” Drift breathed, his breath hot against Prowl's audio. Prowl's aft touched Lockdown's hips, and he ground down to get the last bit of the hunter's length inside him. He bit his lip. His hips were narrow, and Lockdown felt just as big and hot as he had joors before on the forest floor. Drift's hand was slippery and warm around his spike, and he realised with a shock that he wouldn't last long before he overloaded, not with Lockdown pressed against his back, the pulse of his spark throbbing in Prowl's valve, and Drift's chest pressed against his own with the wild heat of his core crackling a mere fraction from his own hungry chamber. Lockdown bit down on the side of his neck, and then Prowl gasped and cried out as Drift did the same on the other side. Pressed between two hot, solid frames, Prowl writhed and gasped as an overload rushed through him, setting his whole frame alight.

When the buzzing high subsided he was still pinned, but Lockdown and Drift were kissing hard, the hunter leaning over Prowl's shoulder and his hand gripping the back of Drift's helm. Drift snarled and rubbed himself against Prowl, his spike getting slippery with Prowl's transfluid. Prowl watched as Drift bit down on Lockdown's lip hard enough to wound, and he remembered the question he had meant to ask, before everything became too muddled with pleasure to process.

“Drift,” he whispered. His vocals were breathy and soft, and at the first sound of them Lockdown's spike twitched inside him. Drift's piercing gaze found him, and Prowl, faceplates burning, asked, “Why did he call you Deadlock?”

“Hmm.” Lockdown knelt up, gripped Prowl by his waist, and threw him down onto the soft berth. He flipped him onto his back and drove his spike back inside his valve. Prowl cried out and arched, rough pleasure fogging his logic circuits. Still, he held Drift's gaze, and saw the strange look in his eyes.

“Because I used to wear a brand instead of a badge,” Drift admitted. “Does it bother you?”

He crawled to Prowl's head, and his spike, long and stiff, bobbed close to Prowl's face. Prowl still felt the pulse of two sparks, the crackling heat of all of their energy fields intertwined, and to his senses Drift's spark was as bright and pure as any other. He reached out and grasped the mech's spike, coaxing him closer.

“No,” he murmured. Why should it? He was already 'facing the bot who ruined his life. A murderer and hunter and criminal, and his partner all the same. A reformed Decepticon was a step _up_. A wry little smirk curled his lips, and then he opened his mouth and guided Drift to slide his spike inside.

“Ohhh...” Drift's whole body tightened up, and he bowed his head between slumped shoulders, leaning forward over Prowl's lithe form. Prowl purred. He was caught, pinned between a Decepticon and a bounty hunter. Well and truly trapped, and yet he didn't recall ever feeling quite so free. His former comrades would have been horrified.

For some reason he found that notion amusing, and so he was still smiling even as Drift nudged his spike deeper into his mouth. Lockdown had been going gentle and easy on him, but at a twitch of Prowl's hips to encourage him, he hiked Prowl's feet onto his shoulders and, leering down at him, started to move faster. Prowl's valve was wet enough to allow it, despite the stretch. Lockdown and Drift, leaning over Prowl's smaller frame, met in the middle in a snarling and aggressive kiss. Prowl wrapped one hand around the base of Drift's spike to stop him from going so deep he choked, and contentedly suckled as the white ninja rocked shallowly into his throat.

Prowl's sensors were still aware of the pulse of life that circled like a current through the three of them, but it felt so physical and natural, like something felt on instinct. His own charge built, and he felt the same power rising in both his lovers, mirroring each other, the same energy and light arcing invisibly between them. Prowl found a euphoric, steady rhythm, timing his intakes with Drift's rolling hips, the plunge and drive of Lockdown's spike, steady as a rising spark-beat, striking him in perfect counterpoint.

He didn't know how long they continued like that, moving in primal harmony, but eventually Lockdown's rhythm became more urgent, and Drift's more erratic. Prowl moaned, palming his own spike, and swirled his glossa against Drift's whilst simultaneously tightening his valve and gripping the hunter tightly. He heard Lockdown's guttural groan, felt Drift's shudder of bliss. Prowl reached out with mind and senses both, feeling the pitch and heat of their sparks, their rising charge. He sank into an almost meditative state and twined his field more fully with theirs, caressing their frames and sparks, touching intimately with raw energy and gently, carefully, controlling the climb of their pleasure. Both mechs hung on the edge, and it pleased Prowl to hold them there for an agonising, beautiful moment – then he arched, his frame blazing with the bliss of an overload, and he pulled his lovers with him. Their frequencies were so synchronised that the result was total success – Lockdown and Drift tumbled over the precipice into overload, following where Prowl guided, crashing into a stunned and explosive climax.

All was quiet for several long, perfect, euphoric moments. Prowl's frame felt lighter than air. He swallowed down Drift's sweet-tasting come, at the same time as he felt the deeply satisfying sensation of his valve being filled with transfluid from Lockdown's overload.

Drift moaned, his arms shaking and threatening to give out as he slumped over Prowl. Lockdown knelt with his head tilted back. When his equilibrium sensors reset enough for him to process, he pulled his sensitised spike from Prowl's body and growled, “What the slag was _that_?”

“Mm?” Drift sprawled across the berth when Lockdown pushed him out of the way, and Prowl only had time to make a small noise of surprise before the hunter turned him over and pressed down on top of him. His spike pushed back inside him, and Prowl arched like a cat, his hands sliding on the smooth sheets, his body stretching out.

“Try that hocus-pocus on me?” Lockdown rumbled, but Prowl couldn't protest, not when the hunter bit the back of his neck and sent him into an immediate overload. The frequencies of their fields were out of sync now, but even that was pleasurable, the chaotic, crackling friction and dissonant heat. Lockdown fucked him punishingly hard, and forced him through two more overloads before he came again and flooded the smaller bot with another shot of transfluid, searing hot and enough to leak down the backs of Prowl's thighs. Lockdown relaxed down on top of Prowl's back, his weight near crushing the smaller mech, but somehow the heat and weight was anything but uncomfortable. Prowl's frame zinged with pleasure, his aura still on fire. “Don't try that slag again,” Lockdown said, but Prowl, in the haze following multiple overloads, detected a hint of affection in his gruff vocals.

The hunter eventually rolled off him, and slumped down on his back, upside-down on the berth. Prowl didn't move; his frame was wrung out and sizzling to the touch. He turned his head and gazed languidly at Drift, sprawled by his side. The white mech watched him with glimmering blue optics, the sharp lines of his face softened. There was nothing Decepticon in that visage, that expression of affection and wonder. Prowl, exhausted as he was, managed to arch a brow.

“That was amazing,” Drift said, still a mite breathless. “You did- it's like you touched my _spark_. How did you do that? Did your teacher show you how?”

Prowl laughed softly. Carefully, he rolled onto his side to see if Lockdown was still awake. The hunter was, but seemed too lazy and spent to pay his companions much attention. His ruby optics held something like pride. Drift crawled closer and snugged in behind Prowl, first wrapping an arm around Prowl's waist and then trailing his hand down over the smaller mech's hip and thigh. Drift's blunt fingers dipped between Prowl's legs, and Prowl felt his fingertips slide through the wetness there. He bit his lip, exostructure tingling with embarrassment and interest both. Drift nuzzled against his jaw, and then gripped his thigh and lifted it. Prowl gasped, and Drift positioned himself. His spike pushed against Prowl's valve and then slid inside. Prowl was slick and supple inside, still wet and warm from Lockdown's overload.

The older hunter grunted and rolled closer. Prowl looked up at him as he traced the line of his cheek with the curve of his hook, but then he leaned down to kiss him and Prowl let his optics close. Drift took him more slowly than Lockdown had, as if he were luxuriating in every little sensation. Prowl's sensors still zinged with input, and if his awareness of his lovers' sparks was less acute than it had been, it was still there, a kind of dull throbbing beat. The storm had calmed, and what was left was a languid and lazy lingering pleasure. He felt warm and alive, unchained and, ironically, safe. Between a stranger and his oldest enemy, he felt the most at peace that he had in years.

Drift hiked his leg up higher so he could push in more deeply. Prowl whimpered at the deep grind, and Lockdown held him and kept him anchored even as he kept kissing him. Prowl didn't think he had another overload in him, but between them his two lovers found one and drew it out of him, and when they did it was almost painful. He gasped and clung onto Lockdown's broad frame as his valve spasmed around Drift's spike. Drift moaned long and low behind him and followed a spark-beat after. Prowl floated down from his final high slowly, feeling light-headed and weak.

He was barely aware as the two mechs arranged him between them on the berth, his head pillowed on Lockdown's chest, Drift's forehead pressed warmly against the back of his neck and his arm slung over his waist. He felt warm and euphoric, and every sensation was pleasurable, especially the reassuring warmth of two strong, very much alive bots to hold him. For Prowl, a mech who had almost always recharged alone, it was unusual, but he was in no kind of state to wonder on it being strange.

Outside, the satellites had dimmed, and the chirping of night-flying micro-rotaries could be heard. Prowl's intakes gradually slowed. He closed his optics, feeling a profound and satisfying weariness in his entire frame. The three of them, tangled up together on Drift's berth in the secluded corner of the sanctuary garden, fell peacefully into recharge, their signals humming in harmony, their spark energies in tune.


	4. Shadow

Starscream flew above the towers of Xerissa. Snow glittered far beneath him, and the spires of the crumbled towers thrust from the rocky ground like shards of rough-cut crystal. On the far horizon stretched an endless tundra of white powdered crystal. The sky was lit green, violet, and blue with fierce electrical storms, as beautiful and deadly as the denizens of the city that stood at the wilderness's edge. In the other direction, past the mountains and far beyond the sight of naked optics, lay another city, under a red sky, where a throne stood broken in two halves.

Starlight glimmered off his wings as he banked and circled in a wide loop around a tower half destroyed. A figure on the ground, dark against the snow, reached up to him and called something Starscream couldn't hear. Behind him, he heard the faint but insistent pulse of rotors turning.

He flew faster. He knew he could out-fly his pursuer, but try as he might, no matter how hard he pushed his engines, the unceasing _thrum-thrum_ of those rotors beating followed him. He flew toward the wilderness, and hoped to lose him in the storms.

As he winged over the harsh crystal tundra, suddenly his wing exploded into pain. A bolt of green lightning had struck him, and now he was falling. His engines screamed as he plummeted, and he transformed, whirling like a skydancer in a crazy, uncontrolled fall. As he fell, he caught sight of the broken crystal city he had left behind, and realised it was not Xerissa but Vos itself, ancient and lost to time and war. Just before he hit the ground, he saw the shape of the one chasing him, silhouetted above the tower. Always a cloud's breadth behind him, but still too far away to reach.

The ice broke beneath him, and then Starscream was falling through the ice and down into flightless black, lightning tingeing his vision. He reached out, he could see the beating silhouettes of those blades directly above him, and then the gunship became a mech, and Starscream screamed out his name as the darkness closed around him.

 

* * *

 

Megatron startled awake to the sound of somebot crying out his name. He bolted upright, optics alight. Disoriented, it took him a moment to recognise the improvised infirmary Gull had set up, and where he had fallen asleep by Starscream's side.

_Starscream_.

Recognition cut into his spark like a spear, that voice he couldn't forget in a thousand, not in four million years. Starscream was awake.

He turned to the seeker and held his shoulders as Starscream thrashed in the lingering throes of a nightmare. Starscream's optics were wide and over-bright, and his claws scratched where he scrabbled at Megatron in confusion. Megatron held him, not pinning him down but holding him against his frame, heedless of the pain.

“Starscream,” he whispered urgently. “Starscream.”

“...Meg... Megatron?” Starscream's struggling slowed, and then his optics found Megatron's and he finally stilled, and then slumped against Megatron's frame with a spark-deep sigh. His arms wrapped around Megatron's middle, and Megatron, stunned, looked down at the top of Starscream's helm as the seeker pressed his brow against his chest. Starscream squeezed him tightly as though he were clinging onto life itself, and Megatron didn't know what to do. A thousand years in the Autobots' dungeon had left him so starved for warm Cybertronian contact that he had grown dependent on sleeping beside the same mech who had plunged a knife in his back. Starscream clinging to him, pressed against him, was more than he was prepared for. His spark surged, the yearning like a physical pain in his chest. He closed his optics and wrapped his arms around the seeker's shoulders. His hands were shaking, and he grit his teeth as he struggled to keep his control and not fall apart completely.

After several kliks, Starscream's intakes became regular and steady, and his hold on Megatron eased. Megatron commanded himself to do the same. Starscream moved his helm away from Megatron's chest, but he didn't look up yet. He pushed Megatron away, and Megatron felt the wall between them go up again. Not just between the two of them – between Starscream and all of the rest of the world.

“I think I'm cracking up,” Starscream eventually croaked. “These nightmares...” He rubbed his optics with the heel of one hand, and Megatron sat back on his heels to give him some space. Megatron was reluctant to let go of Starscream. The seeker's frame was cooler than it should have been, not heated by warm energon and a blazing spark, but Starscream carried a kind of internal light and heat within him nonetheless. Something intangible, save to the very subtlest of Megatron's sensors. Perhaps it was something in the frequency of his energy field, or some echo of the spark he had once had. The spark Megatron had put out. Whatever it was, it made Megatron want to curl up with him on their shared berth and stay there for joors.

Starscream rubbed his helm, and then looked blearily around the tent. “Where...?”

“A small planet called Arelline,” Megatron answered. He tried to calm the thundering ache of his spark, and watched Starscream carefully. The mech had been all but dead for joors – outside, the pale light of dawn had begun to light the sky, and the chirping chorus of organic aerials filled the air. “You remember, Glaive gave you the co-ordinates when we departed from New Kaon.” His words were prosaic, but his vocals came out deep and soft.

The tube from the energon drip was still in Starscream's arm, feeding translucent pink fluid directly into his lines. It was probably the only thing that had saved him – Starscream had no other tangible means of staying alive, save for the intake of fuel – although Megatron wasn't wholly sure. He was Starscream the Undying, the Immortal, risen from the Pit itself... So said the stories, of which Megatron had by now heard numerous iterations. Starscream had always been larger than life, but now his mythos was more than mere ego. He instinctively reached out toward him. Starscream, for all his grandiose titles, for all the tales of his heroics or his nefarious crimes, he was still just a mech. Right now, he was sitting on a makeshift medical berth on the floor of a tent on a forgotten backwood planet, scarred and damaged, rumpled from long sleep. He looked smaller than his legend, but somehow more real than Megatron had seen him in Primus knew how many centuries. Perhaps it was the shock of being reminded again not of Starscream's vulnerability – he had seen enough of that on Torkulon – but of his tenacious, unshakeable will, his determination to survive no matter what the universe threw at him. If Starscream still had a spark, Megatron thought, it would burn just a little bit brighter than other mechs'.

“You've cheated death yet again,” he mused quietly.

Starscream gave him a curious look, and then collapsed back down onto his berth. Megatron started forward, alarmed, but Starscream waved his hand to put him off. He covered his closed optics with his hand.

“I play to win,” he said, “and that means I always cheat. I _am_ a Decepticon after all.”

“That you are,” Megatron said softly. His hand hovered over the place where a brand had once been, above the damaged wing. He wondered if there ever would be again, or if Starscream would re-plate the other wing to match and erase every mark Megatron ever put on him.

“...I have a splitting headache,” Starscream complained.

“You've been in stasis since before we touched down,” Megatron said. He knew he should fetch Gull, but he was reluctant to leave Starscream's side. His spark protested when he even thought of leaving him there alone. Or, perhaps, it was the thought of _being_ alone, apart from him, that made his spark contract.

His decision was forced, however, by a sudden commotion outside the tent. His hand instinctively went to Starscream's, and he squeezed once before he caught himself and snatched his hand away. Starscream only watched him curiously through half-closed optics.

Megatron exited the tent reluctantly, swearing to himself he would see what the ruckus was and then return immediately. When he emerged into the bright Arelline dawn, he was met by Starscream's lieutenant, Vault, standing like a guard at the door with a cygarette between his lips. Megatron shot a questioning look at him, and Vault nodded over to where, near the _Rebellion_ , Blitzwing and Lugnut were jostling an aged Autobot in stasis cuffs into the airlock. There was a great deal of shouting and cursing involved on both sides. But then Vault lifted his optics to the sky and let out a surprised “huh”. Megatron followed his gaze.

Streaking across the sky was a bright comet-trail of fire and smoke. Megatron shielded his optics and watched its descent. His gaze shifted to the smouldering energon fields. The six ships that had accompanied the _Rebellion_ 's flight from New Kaon had caught up with them during the night, and their camp had blossomed and expanded with new shuttles and tents. Megatron knew the bigger ships would remain in orbit nearby – which begged the question, who was this new arrival?

Behind him, Vault slipped into the infirmary tent.

Starscream was still on his berth, but he was fighting with the drip, getting himself tangled up in the tubes and wires Gull had attached to him. Upon hearing somebot enter, his optics shot up and he tensed as though ready for battle. When his optics landed on Vault, he saw the relief on the seeker's face.

“Oh, it's only you,” Starscream said. His words were surly, but Vault took it in stride. He moved to Starscream's berthside and helped the seeker disconnect himself. His hands were slow and methodical, as steady as they had ever been on a trigger. Starscream sat quiescent and allowed him to do the work for him, and then he started to stand up. Vault offered him a hand and a shoulder when prompted, and then, Starscream's weight on his shoulders, they made their way out.

They met Gull coming the other way. She took a look at Starscream, clicked her tongue and shook her head.

“You need a mechanic, not a medic,” she said. “I'm no surgeon, but I've done the best I can. When the doctor arrives with the rest of the fleet I'll ask him to fix your wing again.”

Starscream tried to wave her off, but she persistently stayed and checked the dressing on Starscream's wing. Since Starscream was still too weak to walk off on his own, Vault prevented him from storming away simply by staying where he was. When Gull was done, Vault attempted to help Starscream to reach the ship. He had assumed the seeker would want the privacy of his own quarters, and plenty of time and peace in which to recover his strength.

In hindsight, and knowing Starscream as he did, it had been a foolish assumption.

Starscream growled at him and gestured toward where Megatron was conferring with Glaive and Blackarachnia. “I'm not going to hide in my rooms like an invalid while Megatron gets all the glory,” he snarled. “I want to know what's going on.”

“Something came down,” Vault said. Starscream started to take off toward Megatron, and Vault had no choice but to go with him if he wanted to carry on propping up the weakened seeker.

As they reached the others, Megatron turned around. He seemed surprised to see Starscream up and about, and a brief moment of awkwardness passed between the three of them. Vault kept his face stoic, betraying nothing. Megatron didn't know what he had, what he had come so close to losing. Maybe one day the old mech would learn, but Vault didn't see that day coming any time soon. Starscream was a rare thing, a bright flame amidst the gloomy embers of his kind. Far too good a treasure to be a callous warlord's trophy, he was no prize for a victorious ruler – he was a lord in his own right.

“Well?” Starscream demanded. “Is somebot going to fill me in?”

Blackarachnia silently handed Megatron a hand-held scanner. Megatron glanced at it, clocked the signals, and looked back up at Starscream. The tension had been thick – they were on the run still, and this refuge was their last hiding place in their flight from the Earthlings and Elite Guard alike. Anything coming down now was either an ally, or the _Ariel_. In the state the _Rebellion_ was in now, the arrival of the Prime would be their doom.

Megatron's optics met Starscream's. “It's one of ours,” he said.

 

* * *

 

It was Strika's ship, the _Tyrant_ , the first to reach them from the fleet they had left behind. Megatron went on the scouting mission himself, with Lugnut and Glaive to back him. Starscream, seething at his own damage, was forced to remain behind, but Megatron returned before long with the General herself in tow. They put the _Tyrant_ down in the vast energon field, and the _Thanatos_ ship, just a little smaller than _Rebellion_ , cast an imposing shadow. They extended their camp in between the vessels, and Strika immediately put her numerous crew to join the task of repairing the _Rebellion_ 's damage from the crash. With Strika came her own trusted bots. Vault even knew some of them. He'd fought with Drag Strip, and remembered the likes of Blackout and Spittor.

The rest of the armada arrived in dribs and drabs over the next several orbital cycles, during which time Starscream slowly began to recover his strength, under the fastidious care of Gull and the watchful optics of both Megatron and Vault. He was given double energon rations to speed his self-repair protocols, and Vault managed to coax him to rest when Gull and Megatron failed to bully or chide him into it.

About a decacycle passed before Cyclonus arrived with the rest of the medical team, as well as Tappet in the same juddering Quintesson vessel she and Megatron had used to escape from Torkulon. The doctor, the little red mech Vault had met on Monacus, led the medical staff, and Starscream was finally able to receive proper surgical repairs for the damage he had sustained in New Kaon.

However, along with Knock Out and Cyclonus came somebot none of them had expected.

Starscream was holding court in what had become the main area of their camp when they arrived. He had made himself a throne out of discarded junk from the _Rebellion_ and material scavenged from the hab-block at the heart of the farm. He sat like an indolent prince surrounded by his subjects, idly listening to their chatter and their demands while Knock Out checked his healing wing. Materials might have been scarce, but the little medic had still managed to improvise a new, hard covering for the wing, replacing the damaged plates. Starscream finally looked whole, once again in possession of a set wings that would actually let him fly, and it showed in the way he carried himself, in the arrogant, proud way he sat – he was grounded no longer.

The camp had grown vast as each new ship added to their numbers, and rows of dark foil tents had sprung up in between the landed ships until a whole impromptu city had blossomed into life. It was just turning into the down-shift, and the green sky was a deep, dark emerald. Across the darkening fields, pink fires bloomed where the plentiful energon crystals had been harvested and ignited into controlled bonfires, crowds of Decepticons, old and newly recruited alike, clustering in new and old alliances round each one.

The Quint ship landed in a field far to the west, while Cyclonus's _Erebos_ remained in a close orbit and sent a crew down to the surface in a drop-ship. Starscream sat in the shadow of the _Rebellion_ upon his makeshift throne. Megatron strode at the head of the approaching party, and Starscream looked up and met his optics. Then his gaze slid past him, to Cyclonus and Tappet, but his focus was drawn inexorably to the fourth mech, walking with them, but quite clearly separate.

The doctor stepped away as Starscream rose to his feet and moved forward. His expression was one of stunned recognition.

The mech stepped forward, and when Megatron moved to Starscream's side, the newcomer stood before both Decepticon lords. His attention was solely for Starscream, however. He briefly bowed his head in acknowledgement, and then regarded Starscream with guarded optics. He was a tall, heavily-built jet, his frame made up of angular shapes, his armour a dark night-sky blue. His broad wings, and portions of his night coloured plating, were adorned with glittering etched designs that reflected the pink light from the fires. His face was stern and hard, his optics dark violet.

Starscream didn't react negatively to the lack of a bow or proper obeisance owed to a Lord of the Decepticons. This bot was no Decepticon, not for a long, long time. There were many marks upon his wings, but none of them were brands. This mech owed fealty to another jet, that Starscream knew.

Starscream drew himself to his full height, his wings splayed wide and high. “Shadow,” he said. The newcomer nodded, and then glanced around, taking in Megatron's tacit wariness and the eager optics of the surrounding Decepticons who waited to see who this stranger was and how their lords would react. “What are you doing here?” Starscream demanded. Then a thought struck him, and he said, more quietly, “Is Xerissa-?”

Shadow shook his head slightly and said, “I'm not here seeking your aid. Neither am I here to aid in your campaign... I have been sent to observe, in the hopes that you will not renege on your arrangement with Xerissa's ruling prince.”

Megatron leaned toward Starscream and said lowly, “Starscream, what is this?”

Starscream took a breath. Suddenly holding court in the open seemed less appealing. He gestured toward the _Rebellion_. “We should take this inside, Shadow. Megatron... there are some things it seems we need to talk about.”

Shadow followed Megatron and Starscream into the ship. As an afterthought, Starscream picked Vault out of the assembled 'Cons and nodded for him to follow as well. Inside the ship, Starscream led them to a large room behind the bridge. The whole ship had been cleaned up somewhat since the crash, and this chamber was spotless and neat. A long dark table ran the length of it, and while there were no windows, it was lit with pink-tinged lighting strips at the floor and ceiling. Starscream stood at the head of the table. The others clustered around after him.

Megatron gave Shadow an appraising look. He remembered the mech from Xeriss Alpha, barely. One of the leader' guardsmechs, he recalled. He could think of no plausible reason for the bot to appear now, on Arelline. He looked expectantly at Starscream, hoping he held the answer.

But Starscream looked uncomfortable, and his wings, mismatched as they were, were angled slightly back, the joints at his shoulders all tense. Megatron wondered idly when he had started to pay attention to such things, let alone learn to interpret them.

Starscream paced back and forth for a moment, and then he rounded on the newcomer. “So Whisper thinks I'm going to go back on our deal,” he said.

Shadow tilted his head back just a fraction. “I didn't say as much,” he said. “She merely has an interest in you.”

“Enough of an interest to send her own trine-mate to keep an optic on me?”

Shadow nodded once more.

“I don't like being kept tabs on,” Starscream grumbled.

“Would anybot mind explaining just what exactly is going on here?” Megatron growled. He was nearing the end of his patience, with Starscream and the other jet talking about a matter that Megatron clearly wasn't privy to. “Who is this mech, Starscream? He is no Decepticon. And what is this _deal_ you keep on mentioning?”

Starscream's wings twitched. Shadow regarded the Decepticon warlord impassively. “You haven't told your wingmate,” he said.

“He's _not_ my-” Starscream bit his glossa and shook his head. “It... hasn't come up.” The truth was, of course, that he had deliberately kept Megatron out of any of his dealings with Whisper, and the deal they had made. It wasn't between Xeriss Alpha and the Decepticons, it was between Whisper and her kin, and Starscream. He looked at Megatron now. He cycled a deep breath, and thought back to the moment, to the pact that he had made.

He remembered it with crystal clarity. The sky above Xerissa had burned white and cold, the pale sun shining wanly through the cloud. Even then the snow on the caps surrounding the city had glittered like roughly cut diamonds. Starscream had been standing on an icy outcrop, his fans singing and his engines hot from flight. Whisper had alighted beside him, her wingmates nearby. They had talked, talked about Xerissa and about Vos, destroyed and lost to time. The wild, ancient city they both remembered had seemed more real there under Xeriss Alpha's cold sky, with Xerissa's towers nestling amidst the mountains like a damaged holoscan of the real crystal towers they were built to reflect. Starscream's memory files, long buried and half corrupted, had felt within his reach. Whisper remembered more of Vos than he did, but he thought he nevertheless understood, in his absent spark, something of the city's spirit.

But it would all have been nothing but a long-lost ghost if it weren't for the newsparks. Whisper told him of how her city, her retreat far, far away from the war that had torn her first home apart and reduced it to ash and glittering rubble, had become the cradle for a new generation of her kind. Of their kind.

The Autobots taught that all life came from the Allspark. As if the holy relic was the sole source of Cybertronian existence, of every Cybertronian soul the galaxy over, as if every spark could really be contained inside one dusty old box. The most ancient art and scripture had been lost over generations of war, but there had always been legends. The creation of the Allspark, how the potent life-giving crystals came to be enclosed in their matrix, had always been shrouded in mystery for all but the most rarefied scholars. But Whisper and her kin had found a part of the secret Cybertronian-kind had kept from itself for all these aeons, the core of truth at the root of the fairytale.

Vosians had always been more connected to that side of their being, she had told him. Vos was a deadly and hard place, wild and cold, beset by ice and storms. Tundra on one side, mountains on the other, predacons roaming the wastes to the north. It was a dangerous place to live, and the culture of the artisan-warriors who resided there meant that deaths happened, whether as a result of the planet's cruelty, or of the seeker clans' ritualised combat. Cybertronians were naturally near-enough immortal, and as such had little need to reproduce at anything but an infinitesimally slow rate, but the dangers inherent in their home and their culture meant Vosians were inclined to greater rates of fertility in order to redress the balance. That was what Whisper had said, at least. She hadn't shown him any proof, but he thought... he had _wanted_ to believe. His visit to Xerissa had left him feeling more connected to his lost home planet than he remembered being for millions of years, and the hope embodied there had given him something to fight for – something more satisfying than revenge, and more meaningful than any of Megatron's diatribes against Autobot fascism.

Whisper had made her proposition then, as they looked out upon the city. And Starscream, Starscream had agreed.

“I promised to give her Vos,” he said. “To restore the land she came from. The land _we_ came from.” Megatron could only stare. “In exchange for her help when I needed it.”

Megatron looked from Starscream to Shadow, and back again. “Am I to understand a treaty exists, then, between the Decepticons and Xerissa? Whisper told me she was a neutral party who wanted none of our war.”

“Not the Decepticons,” Starscream said. “Just me.” He gestured vaguely. “I didn't make the arrangement on the behalf of our army. She didn't lie to you.”

Shadow cleared his throat, and stepped in. “We are not interested in your conflict, warlord. This seeker showed his worth to us, and we deemed him worthy of some respect. _If_ Vos can be restored, my leader believes this may be the bot to achieve it. It is a weighty bargain we have entered into – it holds the possibility of dragging Xerissa and its seekers into a war we have travelled the breadth of the galaxy to avoid. But, we have decided the risk is worth it. I have been sent to safeguard the arrangement...”

“To make sure I hold up my end of the deal,” Starscream said sourly.

“In part, yes,” Shadow answered. “But, if you can do this thing for us, then you are worth a great deal, to Whisper, to all of us. Whisper is... invested in your success, shall we say.”

“I don't _need_ a bodyguard,” Starscream said, and he unconsciously moved closer to Vault. Shadow's optics flickered to where Vault stood beside Starscream, his arms folded, watching silently as he leant against the wall.

“Ah, I remember this mech. You fought for him...” Shadow and Vault exchanged a wordless nod of understanding.

Megatron, meanwhile, stood in the midst of all of this and seethed with confusion and annoyance. The full weight of Starscream's deal slowly began to dawn on him. Starscream had allied himself with a rogue faction, an unaligned tribe of air warriors who were _not_ under Megatron's control. With such an army at his back, Starscream could threaten Megatron's power for real, if he chose to return to old ways... The tension in his frame made Megatron's head ache, and his spark tightened in sadness and dread. He had enjoyed this period of peace between them...

He couldn't afford to act on the mere possibility of a threat. He would be a fool to trust Starscream – he _knew_ that. Four million years of treachery couldn't be wiped away with a wave of a hand. But just lately, since Akeron, he had hoped... he had hoped that things were better, that things could be different between them. Starscream had agreed to share the throne, which was more than he had ever accepted before. And Megatron had allowed himself to believe in Starscream's change of heart, and in the progress they had made together. They shared a berth every night, and he thought they shared a vision too. The image he had held in his mind for countless years, ever since he had first marked Starscream's wings, haunted him still – a united Cybertron, conquered and hard-won, and ruled over by himself and Starscream, together. That vision he had thought turned to ashes millennia ago, of two thrones instead of one, had been in the forefront of his mind again of late, and it had even started to feel as though it could be within his reach. But, anything less than absolute dominion had never been enough for Starscream in the past, and maybe nothing had changed.

He noted the aching pain in his chest. He _was_ a fool to trust Starscream, even now. All their history told him so, and yet none of his reasoning could negate the simple, impossible fact. He shouldn't trust Starscream, but the truth was, he did.

“Starscream,” he said, and his vocals sounded rough and strained.

“Don't look at me,” Starscream snapped. “I didn't know she would send me a nannybot to take care of me.”

Megatron sighed. Starscream missed the significance of his tone, as always. “Very well. Vault, see to it our... guest finds a place to recharge. I trust he doesn't need to remain by Starscream's side at all times?” This last was directed to Shadow, who shook his head. Megatron nodded, and Vault moved to obey. As the seeker and the guard left the room, Megatron saw Starscream touch Vault's wrist, and their optics met for a moment. _You fought for him_ , Shadow had said. What had happened there, Megatron wondered.

When Starscream and Megatron were alone again, the silence in the briefing room felt heavy. Megatron felt adrift; things he had thought he had control of were showing themselves to be, in fact, beyond his scope of power. Starscream, once a follower under Megatron's command who had hung on his every word, had over time become a lying, resentful traitor. Since Akeron, he had changed again, and become Megatron's comrade and co-conspirator. Now, he was was changing once more, becoming something else, something entirely new. Megatron struggled for a moment before he realised what it was. He was becoming a leader.

“What right did you have to make such a deal?” he asked, sounding bitter. He knew even as he uttered the words it was the wrong thing to say.

Starscream's optics grew cold, and his face twisted into a snarl of disdain. “What right? I had _every_ right. What right do _you_ have to judge me?” His wings flared and his optics shone brutal red. “One city is a small price to pay for more help – maybe they'll never take your brand, but that's what you hate, isn't it? It just _kills_ you that there are bots who might be loyal to _me_ instead of you.” Megatron clenched his fists. “It's why you've always hated Vault. You can't handle the idea of me having any real power. You talk about sharing the lordship, ruling together, but it's all a load of slag really, isn't it? You just want me back down beneath you, underneath your heel, under your control.”

He whirled and made for the door. Megatron reached out, grabbed his arm. Starscream rounded on him with a snarl, and Megatron found himself pushed against the wall. Starscream didn't attack further, though. He let go, gave Megatron a silent stare of contempt, and then he left.

Alone in the room, Megatron slumped against the wall. His optics shut, he fought against the aching in both his head and his spark. Things had been going so well, he really thought they had been getting somewhere. Perhaps he had simply become so desperate for contact that he had read into Starscream's words and actions feelings that just weren't there. Maybe Starscream hadn't changed at all, but Megatron had. Akeron had weakened him, somehow. The isolation, and the slow, eroding betrayal of Shockwave, so much more insidious and harmful than Starscream's rebellion, had worn him away inside to the point where he clung pitifully to his rescuer simply because it was better than remaining alone.

He drew a breath, and then straightened up. He made his way to his quarters, his frame seeming to creak with every step. The captain's rooms were dark when he got there, and he didn't bother to turn on the lights. For the first time in a long time, he went to bed alone, and when, joors later, he finally fell into a restless sleep, Starscream still hadn't joined him.


	5. Remains I

The Iacon Hall of Records was almost deserted, and Optimus had the place to himself. It was late, and his only company was the library-drones, which paid him no attention at all as long as he stayed quiet.

A stack of datapads in his arms, Optimus ducked into a private reading room and spread the pads out on a table. He had pored over similar documents for the better part of the evening, but so far he could find no records of any Autobot guards or soldiers being transferred to duty on Pyrovar. In fact, he had found very little regarding the base, save from a few passing mentions and one pad containing a stellar cycle's worth of accounts, detailing some odd and unexplained sums and expenses. He was scheduled to depart on the _Odyssey_ in less than half a decacycle, and he was no closer to finding answers than when the first niggle of curiosity had latched onto him. Frustration had turned a fleeting curiosity into a burning question, but no matter where he looked his efforts were foiled at every turn. The only thing he had gleaned was that the base on Pyrovar was either so unimportant nobot had bothered to record much of anything about it, or it was so highly classified that any pertinent details had been carefully expunged from any available records. His attempts to locate information on the infonet from his office terminal had yielded nothing at all. Access was not only denied, but the network had not found any results to his searches at all – hence why he was reduced to digging around in the Hall of Records for passing mentions and inconsequential notes. It only further cemented his belief that the information either wasn't worth documenting, or it was above his clearance level. Considering he was a Prime, that didn't leave too many bots above him in the hierarchy.

He sighed, held his head in his hands, and decided to give it up for the night. He methodically returned all the pads to their places, lest he incur the wrath of the drones, and then made his way out of the Hall. His road back to the Fortress would take him over the arching skyway that looped around the affluent Towers district, but Optimus had another route in mind. After checking that no bot was around to watch, he extended his wings, fired up his boosters, and took off.

The Iacon skyline spread out around him as he rose up into the sky. As the ground fell away behind him, his spark immediately began to feel lighter. Flight may still have been considered a suspiciously Decepticon behaviour, but Optimus knew he would never be able to surrender the pure, simple joy he found in soaring above everything. It made him feel free, as if all his cares were left behind on the ground far below.

It was deep into the down-shift when he alighted on the balcony to his berthroom. He cut his jets, retracted his wings, and stepped inside and closed the sliding doors, hoping nobot had seen him. Magnus always said he thought he was setting a bad example. He retired at once to recharge, and hoped he would have better luck at finding answers the next day.

He was to be disappointed. The next few days were taken up entirely with preparations for his departure, and Optimus found no time to recharge, let alone continue his search through the records before it was time for him to set sail. The _Odyssey_ had been newly outfitted, to a certain degree, inasmuch it was no longer a derelict hunk of space-junk, and could at least fly.

Optimus's small crew consisted of only five bots, including himself – his old friend Bumblebee as Optimus's second, and four bots who had already been previously assigned to the ship when it had been working as a freighter. An old mech named Trapper, and two femmes, one named Rush and another who called herself only Rig. Optimus introduced himself ahead of time, hoping for a smooth transition. It had been good to see Bumblebee again, and while the little mech was curious as to why such a ship was being handed over for Elite Guard business, once Optimus told him they would be tracking down some Decepticons he was all for it.

The others, however, were less enthusiastic.

“Why would they send a cargo ship to hunt Decepticons?” Rig asked him, as he was doing the last rounds of the ship prior to take-off. The ship had been modified somewhat, and Optimus was grateful for the overhaul – some of the cargo capacity had been reduced to make room for a new grapple system and, at Optimus's insistence, a set of two laser cannons. It was no gunship, but he felt happier having a ship with at least some weaponry rather than flying off into the field as a sitting duck. He understood that Magnus didn't expect him to actually find Megatron and Starscream, but he had an agenda of his own to attend to, as well. He would have felt infinitely more confident with Ariel and a full crew, but he had no choice but to be happy and make do with what he was allowed.

Finally, the joor of departure came. There would be no grand send-off, such as there had been for the _Ariel_ 's ill-fated maiden flight. Ultra Magnus didn't even bother coming out to see him off, although Sentinel did.

Sentinel clapped him on the back as Optimus stood on the gleaming dock, watching as the final checks were run. The ship was too big for such a small crew, he thought. Aside from himself and Bumblebee, they only had one warrior, and that was Rush. No Elite, she had the look of a bot who had spent time as a mercenary before taking on the badge out of convenience. Rig was signed on as mechanic, while the old pilot Trapper seemed to be as much a part of the big old craft as the engine core or thrust manifold.

“Don't think of it as exile, old bot,” Sentinel said chummily.

Optimus pulled a face at him. “I hadn't thought of it that way,” he lied.

Sentinel only laughed. “What I mean is, nobot's going to be too upset if you don't manage to track down these Decepticon menaces. We've already put out notices on all our usual channels – I just know it's only a matter of time before some hunter brings the trouble-makers in.”

Optimus bit down on a sigh. Using the bounty hunter network had been Sentinel Prime's idea. The high command had always used hunters' services on occasion in the past, but never on such a widespread level and never so publicly; following Earth, however, Sentinel had authorised appeal to every network – high prices placed on the heads of every Decepticon officer, generous rewards promised for any bot brought in that carried a brand. Optimus had his suspicions about the legitimacy of some of those claims; it was possible more than one of the bots brought in had brands fresh enough to still be smoking, and he knew none of the Guard checked too thoroughly to make sure it was real Decepticons they were locking up. The cells of Trypticon had swelled, so much so that secondary facilities had to be adapted offworld, and the reputation of the Guard had skyrocketed. The war had been won, Megatron had been humiliated and caught, and the Autobots were cleaning up the galaxy and getting the Decepticon underclass off the streets. Yes, there had been trials – Megatron's own had been a major media event – but that didn't mean that every drifter and badgeless mech dragged in for a price was a hardened Decepticon criminal.

Still, the past was past. Nowadays bounty hunters were allowed free access to Cybertron, and the profession had even enjoyed a sort of renaissance as it became a matter of prestige to go Decepticon-hunting on behalf of the greater good. Optimus had never approved of it, but Ultra Magnus had signed it off, and there was only so much one Prime could do.

“Think of it like a vacation,” Sentinel was saying. “A chance to get away from it all.”

“I do have a few things I'd like to do offworld,” Optimus said. That earned him another jocular slap on the back, which almost sent him staggering.

“There, you see?” Optimus managed a weak smile. “I'll take good care of your ship for you, and you'll be back before you know it.”

“Yeah...” Optimus straightened. He would make the best of this, and soon enough he knew he would be back on Cybertron. And, if everything went to plan, he would be bringing Starscream back with him. “You know Sentinel, you're right.”

“I am?”

Optimus turned to a slightly startled Sentinel and put his hands on his shoulders. He smiled. “Maybe this is what I need... Take care of _Ariel_ for me, okay? She hasn't imprinted on anybot yet and I... I kind of hoped it would be me.”

“Yes, yes,” Sentinel blustered. For a moment he had a hunted look, and he quickly changed the subject. “Now come on, looks like it's time to cast off.”

Optimus nodded. He pulled Sentinel into a quick embrace, and the big mech stiffened for a moment before absently patting him on the back. Then Optimus pulled back, cast his optics to the ship, and then made his way up the ramp to the airlock. The doors sealed behind him, and he didn't allow himself a look back. He knew Sentinel wouldn't be waiting – he was probably half way back to the Fortress already.

He went directly to the bridge and stood before the captain's seat. “All right, team,” he said. They were all assembled, even Rig, with a wrench in her hand. This was the time when he usually would deliver an inspirational speech about the importance of the mission, and how essential it was that they work together for the good of the Autobot machine. But as he cast his optics over his new crew, and decided to let it slide this time. Trapper was paying him no attention at all, not waiting for an order before activating the ship's thrusters and getting the old, clunky bird off the ground. Rig was tinkering with something inside a tech panel in the rear wall, a cygarette in her mouth, while Rush lounged by the gun controls sharpening one of her knives. Bumblebee was the only bot who seemed to be paying Optimus any attention, though his wide blue optics seemed to be at odds with his knowingly amused smirk. Of course, Bumblebee had heard it all before, and would tell him it was slag, anyway.

“Let's just... go,” Optimus said, and sank down into his chair in defeat. The _Odyssey_ rose into the Cybertron sky, and then higher, blasting through the atmosphere with what seemed like brute strength, Trapper's practised touch guiding them stubbornly through the shipping lanes and past both moon bases, and then out into open space.

“Co-ordinates?” Trapper barked.

Optimus thought for a moment, and then sent him the details for Ratchet's home. “I want to make a short side-trip,” he said. “Need to speak to an old comrade. Then we're heading to the rim.”

“Decepticon hunting, right?” Rush said. She didn't look away from the gleaming point of her blade.

“Sort of,” Optimus said.

 

* * *

 

Ratchet's home was a small moon in the heart of Autobot space, a safe haven and a newly developed resort world. The crew seemed all too happy to take some leave after they landed the ship in a specialist built dock, and Optimus was happy to let them. He kept Bumblebee at his side, however, and together the two old friends made their way away from the world's only city and into the winding roads of the garden-like countryside beyond. Organic plant life co-existed with Cybertronian architecture here, but beyond the city the touch of Autobot design was harder to see.

Ratchet had a modest estate, the result of a generous pension from the high command in recognition for his work in both the Great War and the battles on Earth. For many years, Ratchet had eschewed the sums the Council paid him, choosing instead to remain on Earth, but Optimus remembered he had retired to this peaceful world shortly after Sari Sumdac's death. As Optimus drove along the gently winding roads and took in the calm, manicured landscape, he thought he could see why. It was alien enough not to remind a bot too much of Earth, and quiet enough that matters of the Guard, of war, should never bother the old mech again.

He felt almost bad coming to disturb the medic's years of rest, after all this time.

When they reached the habitation block, Optimus and Bumblebee transformed and approached the doors.

Bumblebee whistled. “Fancy place the doc's got for himself, huh?” he said appreciatively. The Elite badge gleamed on his chest as he gazed up at the elegantly designed white building.

Optimus took a step forwards, but the doors burst open before he could move any closer. Three turbofox pups exploded from the entryway, yapping and darting about Optimus's pedes excitedly. Following them, amidst all the confusion, came a femme Optimus had only had the good fortune to get to know in the years after the battles on Earth were done. Arcee smiled warmly at the both of them and held out her hands.

“Boys!” she exclaimed. The slender bot gathered both Prime and minibot into a hug, and the mechs were left laughing and smiling in awkward affection. “How many times have I asked Ratchet to invite you out here – ah, I'm sorry, we don't get a lot of visitors. Come in, come in. Ratchet's out the back.”

She released them and turned to head back inside, clucking and whistling to get the pups to obey and follow her. Optimus and Bumblebee exchanged glances, and then followed as well.

Inside, the building was cool and clean. High ceilings and simple white walls created a sense of tranquillity. They padded after Arcee through a curving hallway to a large chamber, the whole of the rear wall of which was made up of panes of blue-tinted glass. Several of the panes had been slid back to create a wide doorway out into the rear garden, and a fresh breeze flowed in to soothe a mech's fans, mildly scented with organic flora.

They followed Arcee outside into a wide metal-paved area, bordered by neat organic beds. The old medic dusted himself off and greeted them with a gruff smile.

“Prime! Didn't think you'd actually make it out here this time. Figured those Elite Guard stiffs would keep you too busy for social calls.” Optimus embraced Ratchet warmly, and then the medic's optics found Bumblebee. “And you brought the kid along too. Well, look at you...” He sized Bumblebee up, while the minibot grinned and puffed out his chest proudly, showing off his Elite Guard badge. “Very nice,” Ratchet admitted grudgingly. He cycled a breath. “You've come a long way, kid. You both have. Come on, let's sit down.”

Arcee brought them cylinders of refreshing coolant, bustling with all the cool, calm competence of a bot used to domestic life. Optimus watched her absently. She was younger than Ratchet, but not by such a vast amount that they had nothing in common – quite the opposite, if Ratchet's war stories were to be believed. A teacher turned intelligence officer and spy during the height of the Great War, she had suffered for the Autobot cause, spent who knew how many years in an unbroken coma, only to awaken without memories and be used against the very faction she had fought so hard to protect. Optimus wasn't surprised she had chosen to retire with her old comrade to the peace and seclusion of this retreat – any bot in her position must have had quite enough of war to last a lifetime.

She exchanged some pleasant chit-chat, and then left the mechs to their drinks. Bumblebee downed half his coolant and fidgeted for a while, before excusing himself to go and help Arcee in the house. Meanwhile, Optimus stared into the surface of his drink and wondered how to broach the subject he had come here to discuss. Ratchet sat motionless, watching him, and waiting for him to speak.

At length, Optimus said, “The real reason I came is, I wanted to talk to you... about Omega Supreme.”

Ratchet's brows lifted just a fraction, but he nodded. He took a sip of his drink. “You know he was decommissioned, right?”

Optimus nodded. “You never told me everything that happened.”

Ratchet sighed. “He was an old bot, though he spent most of his life in stasis. It was slagging unfair, what was done to him. He had a good spark...” A profound sadness coloured the old mech's vocals, and his optics seemed misted, as though he were watching old files replay in his memory core. After a few kliks, he heaved another sigh. “After Earth, he was pretty beat up. And he was... tired. Didn't matter what the Elite Guard or any of the High Command wanted – he just... didn't want to do it any more. Said all he wanted to do was sleep.”

“The Council wanted to keep him operational?” Optimus asked.

Ratchet nodded. “He was the last of the Omega Sentinels that was fully functional. All the others were destroyed, save that fancy ship Ultra Magnus flies about in, and that's near enough an empty shell. They say Sigma Supreme is still in there somewhere, but he's been in stasis for about as long as I can remember...” He shrugged. “Ultra Magnus ought to know, I suppose.”

“Ratchet... what happened to Omega...?”

Ratchet snorted. “His schematics are all on file, Wheeljack and Perceptor have all his data. I told 'em they don't need to keep a warship when the war is over. Especially when that warship has no interest in war. You know they programmed the sentinels to sacrifice themselves? To make them better guardians. Self-sacrifice is written directly into their code. It was... necessary, at the time. It was a desperate time, and I know we needed something to turn the tides, but...” He shook his head. “Still seems like a damned cruel thing to do to a bot, if you ask me.”

Optimus leant his chin in his hand. “All the official records say he was decommissioned and deactivated,” he said.

“And you always did put too much store in the official versions of things,” Ratchet said grumpily. “Omega is still bonded to me, so I still had a say in what happened to him. So, I brought him here with me. Figured if I was allowed to retire then he should too.”

Optimus blinked in surprise. “He is still online?”

“Ehh... in a manner of speaking. I couldn't say anything that could stop him from wanting to... stop. So I helped him go back into deep stasis. Hopefully he can find a little peace, even if he has to sleep forever to get it...” He looked down, and Optimus noticed his fingers shook slightly as he twined them together. “Don't have much call to take him out these days, but I keep him in working order as best I can. The spark's still burning, but he just... doesn't want to wake up.” He shrugged.

“You know they built a new flagship for the navy,” Optimus said, after a respectful pause. Ratchet nodded without looking up. “The _Ariel_. She was a joint project between the Autobots and the humans, designed to combine the best of both worlds' technologies. Her maiden voyage was meant to be timed to celebrate the thousand stellar cycle anniversary of the end of the war and the beginning of the alliance between our planets. In some ways, she's Omega Supreme's legacy... and Sari's.”

“Hmph. Don't see why they're still building weapons of mass destruction, especially to symbolise a thousand years of peace.”

“I... guess so. She's more than that, though. Perceptor's assured me she's more ship than bot. She has a Teletraan on-board computer that controls most of the standard functions, and a direct interface for a pilot or captain to patch in for complete control during flight or combat. That was one of the humans' contributions to the design.” He looked uncomfortable for a moment as certain memories came back. “Reminds me a little too much of Masterson and his Headmaster units if you ask me. It definitely seems like the same kind of technology.”

Ratchet curled his lip in disgust. “And they let them go ahead with that?”

Optimus shrugged. “Everything was approved. I've never... used that interface myself. But the ship still isn't fully tested and operational, even though we've had to fly her. I think they designed her processor to be even simpler than Omega's – there's a spark in her core, but I've never managed to interact in any way with the bot, if there even is a real bot in there.”

“Some bots might call that an abomination,” Ratchet grumbled. “Spark but no mind.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Optimus said softly, thinking of Starscream, who most definitely had full control of his mind even though he had no spark to speak of.

“So why did you need to come here and tell me all of this?” Ratchet asked.

“Because... Because she hasn't imprinted yet, hasn't bonded with anybot. As her captain, I had assumed that bot was going to be me. I wanted to ask you about how to go about being a good... a good role model, I guess. But now I'm not so sure if any of that is going to happen anyway. They've taken her away from me and given her to Sentinel.”

Ratchet snorted in contempt. “Then my only suggestion is that you get her back as slaggin' soon as you can. That bot isn't to be trusted with a cy-cactus, let alone a living new-spark of a ship. Optimus, that ship needs you to be more than just her captain – you need to be her protector. You need to be her _friend_.” He sounded spark-deeply weary when he added, “Don't let her end up like Omega, Optimus. Please.”

Optimus could only nod, and swear he would do all he could. He supposed he hadn't really thought of things in quite such dire terms. One, that the _Ariel_ was a weapon – of course she was a warship, and the navy's only real gunship these days, but he had thought it was all for show; and two, that in the wrong hands she wasn't only dangerous, but in danger herself. He had thought of her as a ship, but never really as a person. He didn't know what capacities her processor had, but if she had even a byte of sentience in her, then surely she deserved a better fate than whatever Sentinel might have in store for her. It made his spark ache to think of, and he felt a sudden urgent need to return to Cybertron at once. But he knew he couldn't. He had his mission to complete, no matter how futile it seemed, no matter how confident he was that he was being set up to fail, sent away from Cybertron purely to get out of the way so he couldn't generate any bad press.

The rest of the visit passed quickly and pleasantly enough, and then before he knew it he and Bumblebee were heading back to the _Odyssey_. Optimus left the planet with a weight in his spark that hadn't been there before, and a small, desperate hope that his beloved ship would still be all right when at last he returned to Cybertron.

 

* * *

 

 After leaving Ratchet, they made for the nearest space bridge and set a course for the outer rim, for the Decepticon Empire and Pyrovar. Space bridge travel had become more available in the years following the formation of the Earth-Cybertron alliance, to the point where independent bridges and gates had sprung up around the galaxy, available to use for any paying customer, but the Autobot network – or rather, the Alliance network as it was now – was still the safest and most efficient. Thus, it was easy to take a single jump from Ratchet's homeworld to the distant galactic edge, and straight into the heart of what had once been the thick of Decepticon territory following their exile from Cybertron.

The space bridge spat them out just outside the planet's orbit, and Trapper diligently took them in close. They sank into orbit, and Optimus decided he would take Bumblebee and Rush down in the on-board shuttle. Trapper would remain on board to mind the ship, and Rig in case there were any problems while they waited.

Optimus hadn't seen the city, the last time he was here. He had transwarped in directly above the facility, which was some distance from the abandoned city itself. This time, Bee flew the shuttle over the blackened and dismal remains of New Kaon, and Optimus got to see the devastation for himself. He watched the viz-screen with a strange ache in his chest. He had never had much compassion for Decepticons. Oh, he believed in justice, and in treating one's enemies fairly, of course, but the Decepticons' plight had never troubled him. He figured they had brought it upon themselves. But since he had come to know Starscream better... well, he just didn't like the thought of Starscream calling such a desolate place his home. Starscream deserved high peaks and open, clean skies...

He shook his head. Starscream deserved his prison cell. He was a Decepticon, a Decepticon officer.

Optimus didn't know what was happening to him.

Beyond the city, they coasted over rocky wastelands until they reached the site of the research facility. The file said the facility had been built to scan and analyse elements and ores in the local soil – a notable purpose if only because of its very prosaic, boring normality. Optimus barely managed to flip through the whole of the dossier he had on the place.

They set down in the centre of the place the base had once stood. Upon disembarking, Optimus became more aware of the creeping sense of something wrong that had bothered him all the way through the approach. The buildings weren't only damaged, they had been completely razed. The towers on the outcroppings surrounding the valley had sported cannons when Optimus had been here last – these were notably absent now. He frowned as he took in the grim scene. There was ash on the ground and burns on the low remainders of the walls that could have come from a fusion cannon, a crater that looked like Lugnut's handiwork. It looked to all optics like the simple human-built research base had been completely destroyed by a senseless and brutal Decepticon assault.

“Looks like the 'Cons did a real number on this place,” Bumblebee drawled. He had his hands on his hips, and he was surveying the devastation with something like awe in his large blue optics. Rush whistled in agreement, then crouched down and sifted some of the blackened sand through her slender fingers. “Is there a reason we're here? I thought all the Decepticreeps left.”

“I... I'm not sure,” Optimus said. He walked over to the black shell of a building. The inside of it was gutted, nothing identifiable or usable inside. “They transwarped away from this planet, we might be able to track some of their signals from here...” He knew it was weak even as he said it. They might have been able to track the signal echoes immediately after the battle, but after this long the traces would be long since gone. He wandered several paces away, facing away from the others with his hands on his hips. He sighed. It had been a waste of time to come here, perhaps this really was an exercise in futility.

Then, just as he was turning away, his optic caught the gleam of something shining amidst a pile of rubble and ash. The debris looked as if it had been blown away from the blast when the large crater was created, into an open, blasted space between the shells of two buildings. He paused, and then went toward it. He crouched down and brushed some of the ash, rubble, and dust away. The shining object was a small shard of green glass. As Optimus cleared away more debris, he uncovered more shards, and a fine powder of emerald grains, here and there solidified by heat into small missapen blobs. He frowned deeper, and Bumblebee called out to him to ask him what he had found.

“I dont' know,” he answered. I'm not... sure...” There was something under the ash, buried thickly with the compacted rock and sand. “Help me,” he said. He dug at the earth with his fingers and gradually the powder and grime came away, revealing a bent but angular metal finial. More digging resulted in the shape beneath it becoming clear – it was somebot's helm.

Bumblebee and Rush both joined him then; they could see what he had uncovered. Between the three of them, digging carefully but hurriedly with their hands, they were able to free the head from the earth. Optimus lifted it carefully. It was then he realised it wasn't attached to a frame.

“Where's the body?” he asked. “Is this a Decepticon that fell...?” Rush and Bumblebee leapt up to scout the nearby ground in more detail, examining every lump. They found nothing. Meanwhile, Optimus held the crushed and misshapen head in his hands.

It had clearly been buried by whatever blast had made the crater. It was crumpled and bent and burnt, and both optics were black and glassless. The green glass that had caught Optimus's attention must have come from the mech's optics. Optimus stared intently into that black, blank gaze, and got a prickling sensation, a strange impression of the cruelty and madness the face's distorted expression suggested. A few fragments of glass still remained as a glittering, sharp rim in one of the optical sockets. The other, however, was ringed with rivet holes, as though it had been covered with a patch that had been ripped off in the blast. The top and back of the head had been torn away, and it trailed wires and raw, dirt-encrusted circuitry.

A creeping sense of recognition sent a shiver up his backstrut. His optics widened, and he sprang up to his feet, accidentally dropping the head in the process. The head rolled away from him, through the dirt, until it came to rest against a small hillock of ash, face up and staring sightlessly at him. The black sockets seemed to glare in hatred and accusation.

“Boss-bot?”

Optimus jumped at Bumblebee's gentle hand on his arm. He wrenched his gaze away from the dead mech's.

“Sorry Bumblebee, I just...” He pointed at the head, which Rush, approaching from the other direction, bent to curiously pick up and dust off.

“Handsome fragger, wasn't he?” she said drily. "Poor glitch. Must've got torn apart in the blast. Pit only knows where the rest of him wound up."

“I think I know him," Optimus said. "I mean, I didn't _know_ him, but... I thought I killed him.”

“Here?” Bumblebee frowned sceptically at him.

Optimus shook his head. “No. That's the strange part.” He passed his hand over his optics. “You haven't found a body?”

“No sir. Not a single trace of anybot anywhere, Decepticon or otherwise. No human remains either. No remains of any kind, really – all the buildings are either razed or so burnt everything inside them got fried to a crisp,” Rush said. She held Driver's head in one hand like a ball. Optimus had to look away, he felt sick. “Either they all got vaporised - and if that's the case, then how did our friend here survive? - or they've been removed."

“What?” Bumblebee scoffed. “That's crazy. Look around! The Decepticons totally destroyed everything!”

“Mmm.” Rush absent-mindedly bounced Driver's head from one hand to the other. “Somebot did, that's for sure.”

“Could you,” Optimus said, feeling queasy. “Maybe not... do that...?”

“Mm? Oh. Sure, boss.” She held the head still again, but then said, “But you might want to take a closer look. See here?” She tilted it to show off the wrecked back of the helm.

Optimus swallowed his instinct to purge his tank and stepped closer. At first he couldn't see what she was talking about, but then it struck him and the shock was like a cold dousing in coolant. “This isn't Cybertronian.”

Rush shook her head and plucked at a red wire. “Never made it a hobby to open up mechs' heads, but I'm pretty sure this isn't part of a standard neuro-net,” she said. “This is alien.”

“What...” Optimus's processor raced. Something had been ripped away from this bot's helm – it might even be somewhere around the site, if they were lucky. If they were unlucky, it had been taken or destroyed after the _Ariel_ 's departure along with every other shred of evidence. There was one thing Optimus was now certain of – the facility had not looked like this before. The  _Ariel_ had been forced to the ground under Decepticon fire, but the 'Cons hadn't bothered to stick around to finish the job. They had fled after their leaders - none would have risked returning just to destroy a remote outpost they likely hadn't known existed before returning to New Kaon.

The facility had been Alliance run, and staffed by humans. There were no mechs on the books, not in any of the documents Optimus had managed to find - which he had already suspected didn't tell the whole story, not one little bit at all.

He took a deep breath. “All right, Autobots. See if you can find anything else. Our priority is still to find the Decepticons. We know they were here. There should be some kind of clue...”

“We should keep this, sir,” Rush said, hefting Driver's ghastly head. “As evidence.”

Optimus fought the urge to bite his lip. “All right, but keep it under wraps. Whatever happened to him... Well, let's just say I think it's better at this stage if we keep it to ourselves.”

Rush's optics glinted. “I got you, boss,” she said. She turned to take the head back to the shuttle.

Bumblebee turned to Optimus, and in a whisper he said, “What are you thinking, boss-bot?”

“I'm thinking,” Optimus said, massaging his temples. “That there is more to this than meets the optic.”

Their further search of the compound yielded very little else, and so, with a heavy spark, Optimus gave the order to take off. They left New Kaon behind, and Optimus was left wondering what might have become of this final bastion of the so-called Decepticon “empire” - watching the ruined buildings recede as he rose into the red sky, Optimus couldn't help but think of the place he had always heard spoken of with fear and revulsion as less the hub of an empire of evil, and more like a last refuge for a people driven to the literal ends of the galaxy in their search for a place where they could live in freedom.

Back on board the _Odyssey_ , he wasted no time in asking Rig to take a look at the head they had found. The ship didn't have a science suite, but it did have a med lab, even if there was no medic to make full use of it. Rig, as the mechanic, was the nearest thing they had, and so she was the bot who was called upon for the task. She sat hunched on a stool by the metal slab intended to serve as a medical cot, a set of magnifying goggles over her optics and another cygarette between her lips. She poked at the raw edges of wires and circuitry protruding from Driver's ruined helm with dispassionate curiosity, while Optimus, Rush, and Bee watched with expressions ranging from interest to horrified disgust.

“This,” Rig said, after what seemed like an aeon of prodding, cutting, and examining every gory component. She held something up between a pair of forceps, and the left lens of her goggles whirred and extended, magnifying her vision further still. “This isn't Cybertronian.”

Optimus leaned over her shoulder, his revulsion temporarily forgotten. The object she held was a tiny fragment of a chip, which looked vaguely Cybertonian in design, but something was... off. It had a uniform, mass-produced look to it, not that Optimus was any kind of expert. There was no stamp or identifier on it, but it was suspicious in its very uniformity.

Optimus sank down onto a stool at the mechanic's side. “What is it...?” He hadn't paid enough attention to the mechs Starscream and the other Decepticons had been fighting. They had been painted like Autotroopers, he had simply taken a glance and assumed they were Autobot guards assigned to the base for security detail. He had found no records for any such positions, and as far as the official records went no such guards existed. And now, he had found the head of a dead mech – a mech he, Optimus, personally remembered partially-decapitating – whose brain had been contaminated with alien technology. It was all pointing in a direction he didn't like to contemplate, and the questions burned at him.

He looked at Rig with keen optics. “Can you trace it?” he asked.

She shrugged, and exhaled smoke into his face. “I can't, but I might know a bot who can.”

“Can you get in touch with them?”

The mechanic regarded him for several minutes, her chiseled features moulded into a look of thoughtfulness. At length, she said, “You won't like it.”

 

* * *

 

Rig's contact met them on a barren moon just outside Nebulan space. An elderly spare-parts merchant, he wasn't too happy about meeting up with a member of the Elite Guard, but Optimus hung back and let this mechanic do all the talking. She and Rush made quite the team, and Optimus felt nothing but quiet awe in watching them work. They were both clearly more at home out here in the wilds than in the sterile confines of the Autobot infrastructure. After a lengthy conversation, the two femmes returned to him several credit chits lighter. Rig looked pleased with herself, but Rush's expression held a guarded worry. Optimus hadn't seen Rush overly concerned before, and he wondered what might have prompted this change of heart.

“Well?” he said gently. “What did he say?”

Rig beckoned them into the low doorway of a grimy restaurant. They took a table in a corner and Rush ordered them cubes of something so dark and thick Optimus doubted it was even energon, and he vowed not to touch it. Then, once they were satisfied they had a private space and weren't being watched or listened in to, Rig motioned for them to lean in close.

“All right.” She took the chip fragment out and laid it on the table in front of them. “He said the grid is full of rumours of something like this, but no-bot's been able to get a hold of one intact to really look at it. Word is it's Quintesson made. It's called various things... Inhibitor, Memory Chip, Mind Block, Reset... It's like a reset button for a Cybertronian brain. It inhibits all memory, almost all personality. A bot can then be re-purposed with whatever directives and memory files their owner chooses.”

“Their owner?” Optimus hissed. Rig motioned for him to keep his volume down, and he whispered, “Sorry.”

“My contact said it would have been designed for use in slaves,” Rig said, her lip curling in distaste. “Everybot knows most of Cybertron's energon is imported from off-world these days, with a large amount coming from Torkulon.”

Optimus nodded. He had never been to the place, but there were mentions here and there of a mining facility. As far as he knew it was independently run by the Quintessons, who traded energon with fuel-parched Cybertron in return for... “Slaves,” he repeated.

 

* * *

 

“Not the only thing coming out of Torkulon.” Rig held up the chip between her thick thumb and forefinger. "They'd need the slaves to work the mines, but that only lets them break even. To turn an actual profit, let alone make up the expenses from manufacturing these things and creating the slaves in the first place, they'd have to go a step further."

“But slavery is illegal on Cyebrtron,” Bumblebee interjected.

“True,” Rig said thoughtfully. “But the rest of the galaxy isn't so enlightened. There are plenty outside the Commonwealth who'd pay for Cybertronian tech, let alone a fully-functional slave. They can't use all the slaves they make in the mines - they'd be fools not to sell some on.”

Optimus thought of Driver's distorted face. He had never seen his body, after the raiders attacked the _Ariel_. He had never really looked for it. But somehow the dead mech had gone from a corridor in the _Ariel_ 's brig to a research facility on Pyrovar, and undergone extensive... modifications... in the process. The idea that Driver could have somehow survived the terrible injury Optimus dealt him only to be discarded as dead and piled with the rest of his deceased compatriots warred with an even more alarming thought: only an Autobot could have taken the body out of the navy's flagship and sent it away for “re-purposing”. A member of his own crew... and they couldn't possibly have been working alone. His head sank into his hands as he pondered all the implications.

“They would need a reliable source of raw material in order to cement a viable trade...” Optimus murmured, thinking as he spoke that the only plausible way for Driver to have been taken was on the transport ship that had come to take Starscream away. There had been no other stops, and no other contact with others until the _Ariel_ had returned to Cybertron. He had thought that transport was taking Starscream to Cybertron ahead of them, in order to help to expedite his trial. He had only found out later that the Guard had other plans for the second most dangerous Decepticon in history.

“So, who can you think of that the Autobots wouldn't mind if they disappeared?” Rush said.

Optimus thought with an increasing sense of dread of the swollen population in the Kaon prisons, the wholesale bounties on any bot with a brand; of of the secondary penal facilities, the routine transfers from Trypticon to vaguely-specified offworld sites. He thought of the shadowy name of Akeron, the prison world where the worst and most infamous Decepticons were sent to get them off the homeworld, out of sight and out of mind. Where they were sent to disappear.

He leant back in his chair as that dread settled in his fuel tank like a cold weight. Suspicion finally gave way to clarity. “Decepticons,” he said.

Well, it was one way to solve the over-crowding problem, he thought bleakly. Prisoners were already put to work in the so-called labour pits. It was only one step further to make a profit out of their labour by trading them for precious energon. A bot might even be able to convince himself the trade was for the greater good, considering the straits Cybertron had reached in the last thousand years, with energon seemingly drying up from wells and hot-spots all over the planet. The Autobots got some troublesome, resource-guzzling Decepticons off their hands in return for essential energon their people needed, and the Quintessons were free to do whatever they liked with the slaves they bought, whether that was to use them to mine the very energon honest Cybertronians relied upon, or sell them on for a potentially even greater profit...

“But who do they sell them on to?” Optimus wondered.

“All kinds, I bet,” said Rush, who was idly scraping a glyph into the table with the point of one of her knives. “For instance, the people who ran that base we visited.”

“But that base was run by humans,” Optimus said, and looked at each one of them in turn. The only one who looked doubtful was Bumblebee; usually he was fazed by very little, but now even the little bot looked as though he couldn't, didn't want to, believe what he was hearing. “That couldn't be approved by the Council. If anybot knew, the Alliance would be jeopardised. A thousand years of peace would just go up in flames-"

“Maybe that's why the place has been cleaned up so well,” Rush suggested with a wry quirk of her lip. “Well, not that well, since we found our disembodied friend. I'm guessing that was a bit of an oversight.” Her brows slowly drew downward in a pensive frown. "Or else somebot is leaving you a trail of - how do the humans say...? Breadcrumbs."

“New Kaon is right on the galactic rim, practically a dead planet. The Decepticons only went there out of desperation. What would anybot have to gain-?”

“Who cares? What are we waiting for?” Bumblebee interrupted. “We _have_ to report this right away! Ultra Magnus, Alpha Trion – the Council oughtta know-”

Optimus held up his hand sharply. “Not so fast, Bumblebee. This news could spell big trouble for the Alliance. It could... Primus, I don't want to say it, but it could mean war.”

“ _War_?”

“Think about it,” Optimus hissed, trying to keep his voice down. “Think how the Council would view their supposed allies using our kind as slaves – as mere machines. Not to mention the bigger problem – that _somebot inside is making all of this possibl_ e.”

A heavy silence fell around the table. A gig this dangerous and big, it had to be somebot with clout, had to be a deeply-entrenched network of powerful bots in the Autobot hierarchy who would not look kindly on Optimus's ragtag group uncovering their operation.

Optimus had no guarantee that the bots here with him could be trusted, but he had gambled and now could only hope that he was in the right. Bumblebee had a big mouth but he was a good bot, and Optimus had his loyalty. He wasn't worried about him. Rush and Rig were both unknown quantities, however. He had no option now but to put his trust in both of them and simply hope.

“Who?” Rush said after a while. She set her knife down and leant her chin in her hand. Her lambent optics searched Optimus's face, her gaze deep and intense.

“...I don't know,” Optimus said. He thought about the bots on the Council, his own officers within the Elite Guard. Bots he knew, bots he trusted. He didn't want to point the finger of suspicion at any one of them, but at the same time he couldn't run from the truth.

“So what do we do now?”

Optimus placed his hands on the table in front of him and stared at them. He didn't feel able to meet his bots' optics. “I don't have all the answers,” he said. “We were sent on a mission to track down the Decepticons who escaped from Akeron. But after finding this..." He looked up at them again, willing them to understand. "I can't ignore this. I can't ask you bots to stick with me, and I can't pretend it's not dangerous - but I need to solve this. And if what we think is happening really is, then I have to stop it."

There was a beat of silence, and then Bumblebee said, "I'm with you Boss-bot."

Optimus felt a rush of relief, tempered with anxiety. He didn't want to do this alone, but nor did he want to endanger his friends.

After a moment, Rig shrugged and huffed out a cloud of cygarette smoke. "Call me curious, I'm in."

"Thank you," Optimus said to both of them. He hesitantly turned to Rush.

Rush shrugged one shoulder and rolled her optics. "Fine. Just don't come crying to me if this all turns out to be some kind of trap."

"Duly noted," Optimus said softly. "I really appreciate it, all of you.

Rush waved her hand. "Yeah yeah, whatever. So, what's our next move?"

Optimus considered for a moment. "I want to see where this leads." He explained to them about the transport that took Starscream to Akeron, about how he didn't see any other way for Driver to have been smuggled away. "I don't know if there'll be anything there, but it seems like the logical place to start," he said. "Maybe we can find out more from there."

They left the little moon swiftly. Optimus retired early to his rooms and spent the night pacing, as Trapper guided the _Odyssey_ to the nearest space bridge in the first step of their journey to the prison world the name of which was whispered in dread and fear across the galaxy. Optimus had never visited himself. He was half afraid of what he would find there.

He continued to pace, and all the way there Driver's head sat on the sideboard like a grotesque trophy, its black hole eyes glaring balefully in accusation.


	6. Remains II

Prowl awoke before dawn. Tangled between Lockdown and Drift's bodies, warm and cosy, it took a great deal of will-power to extricate himself from their carelessly intimate embrace. He managed it without waking either of them, and tip-toed outside.

The sanctuary garden was cool in the pre-dawn glow, and Prowl walked through its overgrown, wild beauty with a feeling of hard-won serenity in his spark. He found an open space by a leaning, tumble-down structure that looked like it had once been a tiny shrine to Primus. There, he went through his customary morning stretches and  _katas_ , practising the forms he had let grow stale in his recent complacence.

Once he had finished, he sat down cross-legged and closed his optics. It was early still, but around him, on the far outskirts of the forest in all directions, the sprawl of Iacon was slowly coming to life. Prowl could sense the life-force of the city's inhabitants, like an indistinct but vibrant halo of light encircling the sanctuary grounds. He sat in the quiet pocket of tranquillity nestled in the heart of the massive city and meditated.

When he eventually came back to himself and opened his optics again, he found Drift sitting opposite him, his pose an elegant mirror of Prowl's own. When Prowl met his optics, the handsome young mech smiled.

“Good morning,” he said.

Prowl smiled. Drift rose to his feet with agile grace and extended a hand to Prowl. Prowl took it and stood, and then Drift surprised him by darting in and stealing a kiss. His lips were soft and warm, and Prowl thought he felt the joy and uncomplicated affection in the other mech's spark.

“Good morning,” Prowl said once the kiss ended. He felt slightly flustered, but pleased all the same. Drift's smile didn't falter.

“Come on. Do you want breakfast?” Prowl nodded, and Drift started walking back toward his refuge. Prowl walked in step with him.

Lockdown was awake when they got back. He raised a brow at Prowl when he walked in with Drift at his side, but then he returned to polishing and sharpening a blade – Drift's blade, Prowl realised with a small shock. The sword he had worn on his back the previous day, and which Prowl had never seen drawn. It was an old blade, inscribed with ancient glyphs. Perhaps Lockdown had his optic on it, but it was still strange for him to pay such loving attention to another bot's weapon. Prowl offered him a hesitant smile, hoping to avoid any displays of jealousy. He still wasn't sure exactly where he and the hunter stood with each other any more, but he had hoped it was no longer somewhere hostile.

Lockdown put his mind at rest when he set down the blade and walked to the door, cupped the back of his head in his large hand and kissed him soundly. Prowl parted his lips and let the hunter kiss him deeply, and by his side he felt the approving thrum of Drift's EM field. Lockdown's own field burned with fierce desire and triumph, and his spark, always burning so hot, pulsed as if in greeting when Prowl's hand came to rest on the centre of Lockdown's chest.

They sat down together and broke their fast companionably, chatting little, simply enjoying the undemanding peace of each other's company.

Then then, as the illumination satellites rose to full brightness and the hum and buzz of the city became distantly audible, they turned to more solemn business. They put their fuel cubes away, and rose from the table. Lockdown was reluctant, but Prowl's gaze, cool and glittering as a knife, brooked no argument.

Drift led them to the place where Yoketron had rested these past million years. A tomb built beneath the gardens, the entrance was a small structure hidden away behind trees bearing delicate flower-like growths of pink crystal, and surrounded by small decorative pools. Drift stopped when they reached the doors, and turned to Prowl.

“I can't open it,” he explained.

Prowl nodded. He stilled himself, hummed a note, and the heavy doors slowly swung inward. Once the way was opened, Prowl glanced at Lockdown, who had trailed behind. The old hunter looked haunted, with his jaw set and his expression grim. Prowl felt compassion for him, but he still would not let him run away.

“Come,” he said. Yoketron was dead and buried, but his death was between them still. Yoketron may be at rest within his tomb, but the two of them needed to see him, and make it real, if either of them were to ever close that chapter of their lives and move on from it. Until then, the past would continue to haunt them, its wounds would remain open, and they were both ready to heal.

“There's a vault down there just for members of the Cyberninja Corps,” Drift explained. “I've never been down, but I hear it's a maze. Are you sure you'll be all right?”

Prowl considered. “I'll find him,” he said.

He gave Drift a nod, and then they parted ways. Drift was reluctant to descend into the shadowy tunnels, and he didn't need to. This was something Prowl and Lockdown had to do.

Prowl passed through the doors and started down a steep staircase. After a few steps, the darkness became thick, but Prowl noticed sconces set into the wall at intervals. He paused to investigate one, but couldn't see any way of lighting it. Then he reached out with his extra senses, and found the tiny spark within the heart of the crystal orb. It was a modified energon lamp, with a trigger which could only be activated by a trained cyberninja. He found it, and sent a pulse of energy into it, and the lamp bloomed into warm pink light. After the first one, the remainder of the spherical lamps blossomed into light at the merest touch of Prowl's mind as he passed them, bathing the steep passage in a dark magenta glow.

At the base of the stairs the corridor levelled out and widened. Prowl continued down broad, low hallways. The walls were silvery white and etched with freizes which became ever more detailed the deeper he descended. He caught glimpses of past Primes – images from a time when the title was more than a miltary rank – engaged in mythical battles. Stories from Cybertron's forging, from the times of the ancients, the first tribes; a time before even the longest living Cybertronian memory. These tunnels couldn't possibly be that old, but as he descended ever further into the twilit labyrinth, Prowl began to wonder. His feet carried him deeper into the underground maze, and his spark guided his steps.

He paused when he reached a vast round door. It reached the top of the tunnel, and was sealed fast. It was an exquisitely carved piece of workmanship, depicting a scene of Primus and Unicron entwined in battle, the eternal struggle between darkness and light. Between them, a starburst picked out in blue-white gems represented the Well of All Sparks, to which the life-force of every Cybertronian returned after death.

Here was where the crypt began truly, then. He didn't know the purpose of the rest of the catacombs, but Prowl could sense this was the place he sought.

He opened the way with processor-over-matter, and the starburst split as the doors swung inward on their massive hinges. Within, a spacious chamber was lined with vertical sarcophagi built into the carved walls. Before each, at about waist-height, was a plaque and a small holo-image of the mech interred within. At the far end of the room was a niche with a small altar. There were none of the orb lights in this chamber, save a small, dim energon lamp upon the altar which Prowl activated with his mind, and the darkness was sombre and intimate.

Prowl entered, and went straight to Yoketron's grave. The holo-image was a simple bust, and the sarcophagus was plain dark metal, smooth and unadorned.

It was several silent moments later that he even realised Lockdown had followed him.

“He was a good mech,” the hunter said, and his vocals were gruff with some unnameable emotion. “Deserved better'n what he got. I knew that then, I know it even better now.” He looked sideways at Prowl; Prowl kept his optics on Yoketron's holo-image.

Prowl took a breath, and then he turned away. He moved over to the altar, set back in its niche. There was a box there, containing cubes of scented powder. He took two, and a taper which he lit with the energon lamp. Returning to Lockdown's side, he offered one of the cubes to the hunter. Lockdown hesitated, but then took it. They placed the cubes in an indentation beneath the hologram of Yoketron, and each lit their own using the taper. As Prowl did so, he sent a silent prayer to the Allspark for his master's peaceful rest within the Well, and thanked its providence for allowing him this chance to make reparation for his mistake so long ago. He didn't ask what Lockdown prayed, or if he did. The act itself was blessing enough.

“Let this be an end to it,” Prowl whispered. Yoketron was long dead, and at peace, and Prowl's life was his own.

He turned to go, but as he did so Lockdown caught him. He pulled him against his frame and wrapped his arms around him, holding him breathlessly tight. After a moment, Prowl wrapped his own arms around the hunter's waist. They stood like that for a few kliks, silent as the weight of years of regret and grief finally began to lift away.

Eventually they separated, and they left the tomb. Prowl resealed the door behind them, and it closed with a boom of finality.

 

* * *

 

The journey back up to the surface seemed much quicker than their descent, and before Prowl knew it the light of day became visible, filtered down through the catacombs. When he and Lockdown emerged from the darkness it was like stepping into a brand new day.

Drift had waited by the entrance, and he greeted them now. When Prowl and Drift made to leave, Lockdown hung back.

“I'll follow on in a while,” he explained. He jerked his head toward the rear of the compound. “Got a few things I wanna figure out first.”

Prowl frowned, but he nodded and didn't say a word to argue. He watched as Lockdown turned and stalked into the forest, in the direction of the shrine where Prowl had meditated that morning.

Prowl turned to Drift and said, “Come on.” He set off in the other direction, toward the main building.

“What are you thinking of?” Drift asked, striding easily beside him.

“The first skill Master Yoketron taught me,” Prowl said. “I thought I would put it to good use while I'm here.” Inside the dojo, he went straight to the familiar closet, and yes, there was exactly what he needed. He drew one out and handed it to Drift, and took a second for himself. He nodded to indicate the dusty, neglected look of the chamber. “How to be handy with a broom.”

Drift's optics warmed and a smile lit up his face. “Right.”

Prowl led by example and set to work. After an emotionally draining morning, he was in the mood for good hard, physical work. It felt cleansing, not just to the dojo he loved but to his mind and absent spark as well. He and Drift worked hard, and Prowl sank into a kind of meditation, finding peace in the simple, honest work of cleaning away a million years of cobwebs and shadows, clearing the creepers from the windows and roof, and letting the light shine in the dojo once again.

 

* * *

 

Lockdown remembered the shrine as being bigger. It was overgrown and had been left to crumble, but it was where he remembered it.

He had never been a spiritual bot, but when he was younger – and it seemed a long, long time ago – he had come here to get away. To hide, if he was honest with himself. Towards the end, before he disgraced all his teaching by running away, he had come here a lot. Yoketron had never let on that he knew this was his refuge, and Lockdown had used the solitary hide-away to pace and vent his frustrations and shame at his inadequacy.

He sank down onto a leaning bench in front of the small shrine. It was at the edge of the little clearing, and was well shaded by the eerie silver trees. As he sat, his shoulders hunched. His body ached in a way he had never felt before, and his spark was a sharp lump of glass within his chest.

The clearing was still, and no answers came from the eroded effigy of Primus that stood within the tiled alcove of the shrine. No answers ever had, and no god had ever spoken to him. He had never felt the presence of the Allspark, never felt the spiritual certainty that had seemed to fuel Yoketron. He had always thought it was just so much bunkum, just fairy tales and magic and part of a world that wasn't for him. A world for better mechs than him. He had never even really believed it was true, until Prowl... Until Prowl came back from the Well, walking and talking and radiating that  _power_ , and Lockdown's spark had thrummed with that cosmic frequency and for the first time in his long,  _long_  life, the hunter had started to believe. Prowl had touched his spark with it, with a power that had no explanation but the supernatural, the divine.

It went against every notion Lockdown had had of the little bot. He'd thought them kindred spirits in his own, bitter way – the first time he fought alongside Prowl he'd thought he'd seen a spark as black as his own. Another spark that thrilled at the chase, the hunt, and which revelled in the darkness to which it was kindled. And when Prowl had re-awoken, he had seemed a beast from the Pit, feral and deadly, and Lockdown had wondered if he had been more right than he ever could have foreseen. As Prowl had become lucid and aware, Lockdown had sought to coax him into being the mech Lockdown thought he truly was beneath his self-righteous Autobot indoctrination. And it was true, he had still sensed the same darkness in Prowl – the same deadly ease with which he took to violence, the same vindictive cruelty, the same acerbic wit and predatory instinct, keen as an energy blade. He hadn't been wrong. He had seen Prowl fight on Andala, seen him kill at the Falling Star. They had hunted Whipcord together and they had worked like two parts of a single machine, fitted together so well they could have been designed that way.

_And yet_. And yet, the bot Lockdown had thought Prowl was – a bot with a spark as dark and twisted as Lockdown's own – could never have carried the otherworldly power Prowl did, could never achieve the perfect serenity that allowed him to focus his mind to a blade's point, sharp and  _strong_  enough to move the very world around him. Surely the bot Lockdown had thought he was would never be welcome in this place, would never have been able to open the sealed, sacred doors or synchronise with the very energy of this hallowed sanctuary. A bot like that would never have been able to touch Lockdown's spark with the pure, perfect presence of his spirit the way Prowl had; Prowl had reached into his very core and threaded his essence with his own, and it had been luminous and frightening in its power.

Lockdown sighed and bowed his head. He was nothing but an old hunter, and just then he felt even older than the sum of all his mismatched, disparate parts. He covered his face with his hand and rubbed his optics. It had been a gruelling day, even if it was still a young one. He had made the offering as Prowl had prompted, but he had felt nothing. He didn't know if he would ever make peace with his old master, and considering the lonely silence of the shrine, he figured he would never make his peace with Primus either.

Prowl said he forgave him. Lockdown thought that was the final knife, the final blow to prove how wrong he'd been. Prowl was a better mech than he had ever guessed, and it only made Lockdown all the more disgusted with himself. Prowl deserved so much more from life, especially now he had been granted a second chance.

Lockdown stayed a long while in the silent glade, until the satellites rose to their zenith and the light of the stars faded as the sky seemed to glow a lighter blue. Soon enough Prowl would wonder where he'd gone. The little glitch would come looking for him, with Deadlock in tow. That thought made him smile ruefully. Some bots deserved their second chance, he supposed. Prowl, for his heroism, for his sacrifice. And Deadlock, who by some favour of Primus had been given a second life as this “Drift” – Lockdown could only presume the mech had a purer spark than he ever had, brand or no. A brand was only a mark on the armour, after all, and not a blight on the spark.

For Lockdown, however, there would be no such romantic nonsense. He had no illusions about who he was or what he had done. His career was a long one, and one he had chosen – for all the desperate circumstances that had pushed him away from a truer path, he nevertheless  _had_  chosen. And it was a million years too late to try to go back on that choice.

He rose from the bench and gave the statue in the shrine's alcove one last nod. He felt no presence, no evidence whatsoever to  _prove_  the place was holy. It was as it had always been, before Prowl reached out to him - a world closed off. Well and good, perhaps. He had his own world to return to, and had no business trying to break into places better left alone by his kind.

He didn't bother to transform as he made his slow way back to the  _Death's Head._  The noise of his engines would have brought Prowl running, he was sure, and he wanted to take the extra time, with each heavy step, to really think about what he was leaving behind. For the first time in his life he had had a partner. Only for a short time, of course, but it had been good. It had felt right and complete, as if the whole world had somehow clicked into place. And last night... last night had been beyond anything he had ever hoped. He would hold onto those memories as if the files were precious, because they were all he was going to get.

The  _Death's Head_  was exactly where he had left it. It seemed a lifetime ago, but it had only been the turning of a single orbital cycle. He retrieved the pieces of his rifle from the shadow of the rock, dumped them into his subspace, and then climbed the ramp up to the ship's airlock.

The air inside the ship seemed still and stale. He didn't look in on Prowl's room as he passed it, and went instead straight to the workshop, and sank heavily into the chair by the control terminal. Around him, his trophies cast dark, malformed shadows; the ship seemed less like home than it had the day before.

It took no time at all to get the old ship into the sky. Iacon customs hailed him and let him pass – he was known to them, and had checked in on the way down. Gone were the days when bounty hunters were as unwelcome as Decepticons – not since hunters like him filled half the cells in Kaon. He felt like something should happen to hold him back, some kind of sign that he should stay, but nothing came. Before he knew it he was coasting past Moon Base 1, and then the space bridge at Moon Base 2 hung in the viz-screen. The toll was debited from his account and he was granted passage; the hunter requested a route to the rim. The Cybertron bridges were more powerful than any he might have found in a neutral station, and the jump would be easy. He would continue his hunt without Prowl, and Prowl would get what he wanted. What he asked for. He would stay on Cybertron and reclaim the life he had lost.

The space bridge whirled to life, and Lockdown powered the ship toward the flowering blue starburst in the centre of the gate. He forced himself not to hesitate. The  _Death's Head_ 's weary old engines chugged, and then the current of the space bridge caught the chunky craft and drew it into the whirlpool. Everything blurred as the ship entered transwarp, and the viz-screen went blue. In a matter of astroseconds, Cybertron was light-years away. And so was Prowl.


	7. Rituals

The morning after his spat with Megatron, Starscream was still feeling bitter and angry, but the lack of recharge had left him tired and unhappy, too. Animosity between Megatron and himself would be sensed by the troops, and any discord was more than they could afford. Strika had already been eyeing him with ill-concealed suspicion and contempt.

He wasn't sure he was ready to face Megatron again so soon, and in the light of day. So, to avoid a confrontation that he was sure would only dredge up the same argument from the night before, Starscream took to the skies.

The landscape of Arelline was idyllic, if somewhat dull, as he flew above it. Fields of budding energon crystals gave way to thick organic woods intersected by meandering streams, the very picture of pastoral beauty. The emerald sky was dotted with light clouds which Starscream amused himself with shredding every time he flew through them. The air smelled of fresh energon and ripe, rank organic flora. Starscream spent the early morning rolling and diving, riding the fluctuating air currents in the shallow rolling hills in the area surrounding the camp.

After a joor of solitary flight, Starscream became aware of a second signal approaching. He transformed and twirled to a halt, hovering above a pastel-coloured cloud-bank. This time it wasn't Blitzwing, who had joined him to fly in the skies above Xerissa. No, this time a different jet cut the air with all the predatory precision of a shark cutting through water. Shadow jetted past him, and Starscream felt the hot rush of air on his face and his wings. The older mech circled around him, and Starscream turned to track him, bemused. When Shadow transformed, he had a mild expression on his chiselled faceplates.

“Here to keep an optic on me again?” Starscream said by way of a greeting.

“Flying alone doesn't befit you.” He gestured to where the bright Arelline sun was easing its slow way above the horizon. “It's a beautiful sunrise. Whisper said you knew how to fly like a skydancer – I think I am curious to see if it is true.”

“Hm. Don't you believe your own wingmate?” Starscream said acidly, but he still transformed and tilted his wings, inviting the older mech to join him as he flew away over a broad stretch of forest, toward the sun. Shadow said nothing more, but transformed and followed. He surprised Starscream by flying for some time on Starscream's wing, and allowing the younger seeker to lead. Perhaps he was gauging his skill, Starscream pondered.

Never able to resist an opportunity to show off, Starscream threw himself into an elaborate series of twists and rolls, keen to show Shadow just what he could do. For a time, Shadow humoured him, but the rhythms of Starscream's flight were erratic and unpredictable, and after several kliks he transformed, hovered, and folded his arms in disapproval. The camp was laid out far below them, just beginning to stir.

Starscream switched to root mode and coasted on a warm current. “What's wrong? Can't keep up, old mech?” he shot.

Shadow snorted. “It is not a race,” he said. “You fly like a nestling who's only just gained his wings. I'll own you have talent, but when was the last time you flew in formation? The last time you flew the old dances step by step?”

Starscream glowered. “I flew well enough on Xerissa,” he snapped.

Shadow nodded. “Maybe. Immediately before you killed several of my kindred.” Starscream bristled, and Shadow held up a hand. “I'm not seeking vengeance,” he said. “Your mech was threatened. You fought like any wingleader protecting his kin, and with unparalleled ferocity, as well...”

“Is there a point to this rambling?” Starscream demanded irritably.

Shadow gave him a bland smile. “There's more to being a wingleader than fighting. The dances rely upon co-operation and harmony with the rest of one's squadron. There is value in that.”

Starscream's wings twitched. “All right then, old bot,” he grumbled. “Show me how a real leader flies.” His vocals dripped with disdain, but the air was crisp and cool and the sun just up – it was a good day for flying, and the prospect of flying with a bot who really knew how to fly, fly like a seeker, was too much for him to pass up, even at the cost of his pride. And it was a considerable cost, but Shadow did nothing more to mock him.

They began with a simple, slow helix. In alt-modes, they twined their vapour trails around one another in a rising column, each moving to mirror the other. They rose higher and higher, where the air became colder and the green of the sky paled to a fresh, light mint. Then Shadow began to fly in more complex patterns, repeating loops, and Starscream mirrored, crossed his path when it felt right; he focused on Shadow's lead, and surprised himself when he found it easy to adjust his own flight to complement. Their steps gradually became more intricate, and both jets added small flourishes of their own, adding a flair to make the dance their own. A pure joy bubbled in Starscream's core, and simple exhilaration made a laugh burst from his vocaliser.

On the ground, Megatron emerged from the Rebellion, shaded his optics, and looked up. The two winged shapes were directly above the camp, circling and weaving around each other, painting an elaborate calligraphic pattern across the emerald sky.

Blitzwing appeared by his side, and Megatron said, without tearing his optics from the spiralling jets, “What are they doing?”

Blitzwing folded his arms and tracked Starscream and Shadow's paths. Blitzwing was a jet, but he was sparked in Polyhex, and constructed a tank. The jet form had come later. The customs of Vos were as mysterious to him as they were to Megatron. He offered a one-shouldered shrug. “Dancing, I think.” Suddenly he was giggling, and a red grin lit up his face. “Perhaps it's a courtship ritual. I should ask Starscream to give me some lessons!”

Megatron grimaced. He thought about hailing Starscream and getting him to come down, but then he remembered the cold resentment in Starscream's optics the night before, and he thought better of it. Instead, he tore his optics away from the two jets and nodded to Blitzwing, who reined in his amusement under Megatron's steely gaze. “Come, then. We'll have the morning meeting without him.”

The strategy meeting was held in a broad open area they had cleared in the wood beyond the camp. A table had been set up, large enough for the captains of a dozen ships to hold council there. Energon lamps were suspended around the clearing from the branches of trees, though they were unlit, as the sun had now almost reached the height of the sky. Megatron and Blitzwing were the last to arrive. Cyclonus and Strika were already there, along with the newly branded Tappet. Captains from the _Eris_ , _Kolkular_ , _Adrastia_ , and _Wraith_ were in attendance, as well as Vault, lingering with his arms folded at the head of the table. Presumably he was awaiting Starscream's arrival, but Megatron thought he would be disappointed. Still, he shared rank with Blitzwing, and therefore had a right to be there.

Megatron took his place at the table's head and pulled a holo-tablet from his subspace. He set it on the table, activated it, and suddenly a holographically projected star-chart glimmered to life in the air above the tabletop.

“Good morning, gentlemechs, femmes,” he said. “I won't waste time with empty pleasantries.” He looked around, his optics taking in the looks on the faces of every bot present. They had been on Arelline for long enough, and he knew that for some impatience was setting in. For himself, as well. “We are here today to discuss our next course of action.”

“Surely we should move on Cybertron,” Strika said. She leaned over the table and jabbed a blunt finger at the glowing blue sphere that marked their home-planet on the chart. “We have been preparing for this day, my lord,” she continued, her vocals tinged with fiery patriotism. “Disable the space-bridges, commandeer one of the private pay-gates, and infiltrate the hub on Cybertron. All we have been waiting for is your return.”

“You're a thousand years too late,” Vault said scathingly, earning a look of outrage from the General. Megatron caught the scorn and contempt in her gaze as she glowered at a mech she clearly thought had no place to be there, let alone speak so to her. “You don't think the Autobots have measures in place against just that kind of attack? Space bridges are a cred a dozen these days, they must have seen a threat in that. And besides, the moment we tried to launch any kind of attack on Iacon, their back-up would bridge in in the blink of an optic.”

“Back-up? What back-up?” The captain of the _Kolkular_ , a burly purple mech going by the name of Mortar snorted. “The Autobots only have one warship, and we took that out of action well enough on New Kaon.”

“You're forgetting about the Earthlings,” Vault replied.

Mortar rolled his optics. “Earthlings. What could they possibly do against a Decepticon army?” He laughed, and a few of the other officers laughed with him. Megatron watched impassively, his arms folded. He was about to reply, when there was a roar of jet engines, and Starscream landed at the opposite end of the table in a whirling gust of hot air that set the lamps in the trees swinging. All optics turned his way. The sunlight flashed off his repaired wings and seemed to form a dazzling aura around him. Megatron's spark stalled in his chest for a breathless moment, and then Shadow landed by Starscream's side. The older jet was bigger and darker, his frame picked out in angular, sharp shapes, every plate glistering with etched patterns, indecipherable, alien glyphs that were mirrored by the incomplete marks on Starscream's wing. He loomed at Starscream's side like some kind of guardian demon, reminding Megatron once again of the bargain Starscream had struck, and of how different Starscream was becoming.

“Don't underestimate the humans,” Starscream said, in the silence that followed his abrupt entrance. He gestured to the wing Gull had repaired for him, the damage still just visible. “One of their creatures did this to me.” His optics found Tappet's. “One of their creatures killed Stringer.”

“We cannot afford to underestimate any of our foes, this time,” Megatron agreed gravely. Attention shifted back to him, and he felt all their optics, even Starscream's, even the quiet, calculating gaze of Shadow, upon him. “That was where we failed a thousand stellar cycles ago. Cybertron was within my grasp, but I chose to test the weapons on Earth instead – I underestimated the Prime, and everything we had all worked so hard toward for four million years was squandered.”

“This is our last chance,” Cyclonus murmured.

Megatron nodded. “I am not a fool. I know that if we fail now... the Decepticon cause is finished. We are diminished, scattered. Our numbers are not what they once were, even now we have united so many. Whatever happens, this will be out last stand. Our final battle.”

“There would have been more of us,” Strika said solemnly, “if Shockwave had not splintered our forces. Who knows how many warships, weapons, soldiers were hidden away-”

The slam of Megatron's fist on the table silenced the General. “Shockwave was a traitor of the most vile kind,” he said, and his vocals were strained with the effort it took to maintain his control. He practically vibrated with anger. He would not tolerate any mention of his usurper, let alone suffer his own mechs turning to the traitor's leadership when Megatron's own was perceived to fall short. Shockwave had spent hundreds of years sapping Megatron's power and his will, had humiliated and diminished him, stripped him of agency and respect and left him to rust and be forgotten in his cell for all eternity. “We will return to Cybertron, and we will not need Shockwave's aid to do so. Any mechs loyal to him are doubtless traitors just like him, and therefore no use to us regardless. I will not hear another word about it.”

There was a stunned silence, and then Starscream, of all mechs, stepped in. “Besides, Shockwave is dead. Since we have no access to his network, we have to forget about it. We can't rely on conjecture and wild guesses, we need to deal with the forces and advantages we _do_ have, not waste time chasing what we might.”

There was a murmuring of voices, agreement mingling with dissent. However, Strika and her mechs knew that to continue that line of argument now was to go directly against Megatron's word. They didn't care for Starscream's thoughts on the issue, but Megatron's were another matter altogether. Megatron failed to notice the divisions already beginning to take root, but others did. Vault noticed, and so did Starscream.

The meeting continued, but in the way of a real strategy to take Cybertron, very little was agreed or accomplished. They argued in circles, and Megatron, where once he might have taken decisive command of such roundabout time-wasting and directed them straight to a course of action, instead allowed discussion, and let the tension simmer.

The only real thing to come out of the meeting was a slight change to the command chain. Vault and Blitzwing retained their positions as First to their respective lords, despite disapproval from the likes of Strika. Cyclonus and Tappet were appointed equal rank with the General, and given free rein to name their own captains within their commands.

After the meeting, the rest of the day passed as uneventfully as the last several had. Blitzwing led a squadron of aerials in airborne drills, while the other commanders took their own troops through various training regimes. Around them, the short Arelline day passed, warm and beautiful, the organic world continuing on as if an army of war-machines had not taken up temporary residence in its fields and woodlands.

Starscream avoided Megatron as best he could, joining Blitzwing and the other jets in manoeuvres for a good portion of the day.

As the sky gradually darkened toward dusk, Starscream returned to the _Rebellion_ and his customary haunt, his makeshift throne in the space below the ship's prow. An energon fire had been kindled for light, and it flickered warm magenta. On logs and chairs around the fire, other bots sat in the lengthening shadows. He recognised Glit, one of the medics, poring over a stack of datapads, and a couple of the mechs from the _Adrastia_ dozing together on a mat, barely visible in the shifting shadows. Vault, his distinctive helm wreathed in cygarette smoke, watched him approach and gave him a nod of greeting and a faint smile. Starscream returned it and sat down, crossing his legs. Vault lay down on his log and went back to staring at the stars, his cygarette sending a coiling wisp of purple smoke up into the evening air.

Starscream slumped forward in his seat and stared into the fire. Around him, the camp was still and peaceful.

There had been a memorial for Stringer, earlier. A fire had been lit in his honour, in the absence of his frame. The energon-fuelled flames burnt to represent the unquenchable flame of the Allspark, the primal fire at the heart of Cybertron from which all life was forged. It wasn't something Autobots did, he didn't think, but a tradition from the lands that had once been barbarian wilds, in the time of the ancients – harsh Kaon, where resources were so scarce that a dead mech's body was too valuable not to melt apart and use, and Polyhex, home of the original Darkmount, where smelt pools opened up spontaneously and made the very air shimmer and seem to melt with the unending heat, as though the planet itself were opening up and asking its children to give back their fallen. In such places, Starscream supposed, talk about a bot's spark returning to the source to be reborn anew were too literal to be dismissed as airy legend or spiritual allegory. The air in the camp was still fragrant with the scent of the flames.

It wasn't long before Shadow found him.

Starscream was still gazing absently into the fire when the older jet touched down. He approached quietly, and took a seat on a broad log by Starscream's side. He sat with his back straight and his arms folded, his wings stiffly upright. Starscream cast him a sidelong gaze.

“They tell me this Stringer was a jet build,” Shadow said. “No bot seems to know where he was sparked.” He clicked his tongue and shook his head.

“Does it matter?” Starscream asked.

“Hardly. Only that it made me wonder... It would not be like this, in Vos.” Starscream rolled his optics and tilted his head back, but the old mech continued quietly, “I suppose the ice towers are all fallen by now.”

“The ice towers... the necropolis?” Starscream said, remembering the glittering glass-like towers built away from the city but visible from its edges, where the Vosian dead would have been laid out in ceremony so they could sleep forever under the open sky, the wind always on their wings. Shadow nodded, and gave him a look that might have been approving. “You're not so ignorant of the culture that sparked you as you seem, nestling.”

“Hm.” Starscream leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and stared into the shifting magenta flames. “I was sparked at the end of Vos's time, when the Great War was just beginning. The fallout from the previous wars was still fresh, and the whole world seemed like a mess. But in Kaon a new faction was rising, and their leader was a charismatic firebrand, heading straight for the heart of Iacon... A revolution was starting, and I was young, barely-sparked, and head-over-thrusters in love with a handsome stranger before I ever even met him...” He smiled and tossed a dry stick into the fire, watched it pop and fizzle. “I left the mountains as soon as I could fly, headed for the lowlands and the war. I haven't been back.” He shrugged.

Shadow tutted, and cycled a slow breath. “That does explain a lot,” he said. Starscream gave him a glare but didn't rise to the bait. “And what became of your handsome firebrand?”

Starscream sighed and cast his optics back to the fire. He smiled a crooked, rueful smile. “Well, our heroes are never the way they seem in the data-casts, are they? One day they promise you the world, and the next they punch your spark out. Literally.”

“...I see.”

“ _And_ I think he's mad at me.” Another sigh. Silence fell gently upon the firelit circle. The shadows were thick and dark, and the dimmed optics of the bots left awake twinkled like distant stars in the gloom. The rest of the camp was quiet in the down-shift. Sentries would stalk and fly the perimeters, while the rest of the army slept. It was warm in the sheltered lee of the _Rebellion_ , and the haze of smoke from the camp-fire and Vault's sweet-scented cygarette lent the scene a dreamlike quality, as though Starscream sat in some still twilight world, suspended from the slog of reality for a night, time standing still.

“Come here,” Shadow said. His vocals, rough as they were, were low and quiet. They seemed to resonate somewhere deep inside Starscream, somewhere his spark should have been. Starscream rose from his throne and crossed the short distance to the log where Shadow sat. He looked down at him, holding the unfathomable gaze of Shadow's deep indigo optics.

Shadow raised his hand to him, and Starscream took it. The old jet guided him down, and Starscream found himself sitting on the ground before the other mech's seat, his back to him. He started to turn to question him, but Shadow's hands landed gently on his shoulders, his grip firm and warm. “Easy,” Shadow murmured. “When was the last time somebot did this for you?”

His hands squeezed Starscream's shoulders lightly, and Starscream swallowed, feeling unsure. His wings hiked up tensely, and his claws twitched. “What are you talking about...?”

Shadow clicked his tongue in disapproval. Starscream flushed. The old bot made him feel so ignorant, so inadequate. He hated it.

“You've been too long away from your own kind,” Shadow said as a reply. His vocals were barely more than a whisper, and somehow their tone was deeply calming to Starscream. In spite of his indignation at being made to feel like a stupid sparkling in his presence, he was reassured.

“I don't underst- ahh!” Shadow's fingertips had played lightly over the top edges of his wings, near the base, where they connected to the plate on his back. The sensation was electric and intimate. Starscream's breath caught in his throat, and he held his frame taut and trembling as Shadow's touch returned, fingertips lightly stroking inward along that top edge. Starscream's shoulder joists ached from tension as he held his wings high and still, but then Shadow slowly, so slowly spread his hands flat against the surfaces of Starscream's wings. Starscream felt his splayed fingers, his warm palms, and it was as though some deep-coded file was reactivated, some long-buried memory of the nest, when his mentors and nest-mates gave and sought simple comfort in the form of touch... He swallowed thickly, and then let out a shaky breath.

“There,” Shadow murmured. He moved his hands slowly, as though afraid of spooking the younger jet. Starscream would have laughed, if he wasn't so shaken. Instead he closed his optics, and tried not to grit his teeth as sensation and memory assailed him. The files from his earliest years were fragmented, buried or deleted to make room for new data, but some of them were still there. Shadow's hands moved over the curves and edges of his wings, tracing the tattoos that told of who he was, and the damage that did the same. Pleasure kindled slowly, together with an unfamiliar warmth somewhere in his fuel tank, an aching in his spark chamber. His processor whirled, and one notion rose to the surface of his tumultuous thoughts – kinship. Something he had lost, somewhere between leaving the crystal towers behind and trading in his home for the ungentle mercies of the Decepticons and war.

Bit by bit, Starscream relaxed. Shadow worked on him slowly, thoroughly, and with practised, methodical ease. Amongst his trine, this kind of bonding ritual was probably still a day-to-day routine, but to Starscream, for whom the only recent contact to his wings had been in the form of damage and wounding, it was a monumental act of trust. A seeker's wings were his soul, in more ways, perhaps, than his spark was. So they said in Vos, anyway – and he thought they did in Xerissa, too.

Shadow's touch worked its magic on Starscream, and before long the younger seeker was trembling under the older mech's masterful touch. His intakes came in soft, shaky gasps and sighs, and his optics, barely open, burned deepest crimson. His claws dug into the earth where he sat, and he arched his back and leaned into Shadow's hands. His wings fanned backward, no longer hiked up in agitation but spread wide and loose. His face was flushed, and the firelight glimmered off his shining plating. Shadow's fingers teased the very tip of one wing, and then trailed in a feather-light looping pattern down both wings' blades until his hands met in the centre of Starscream's back. Starscream arched gently and made a small sound in his throat. Shadow leaned forward. His hands pressed harder, coming up to Starscream's shoulders and massaging the base of his neck. Starscream tilted his head back. Shadow's intent expression lightened in a small smile.

Starscream met his optics and tried to speak. Shadow quieted him with a silent shake of his head. Very carefully, he guided Starscream forward, and sank down between him and the log, sitting now on the ground instead. His frame pressed warmly against Starscream's back, his strong thighs on either side of Starscream's hips. Starscream started to lean back, and Shadow encouraged him with gentle hands on the front planes of Starscream's wings. Starscream relaxed gratefully against the smooth curve of Shadow's cockpit. Shadow returned to rubbing Starscream's wings, the patterns rhythmic and ancient. Starscream squirmed, feeling too exquisitely warm, and there was a deep throbbing in his chest, as if his spark were really there and burning. He closed his optics and surrendered. Shadow's hands brought him to a sweet and perfect overload. He held his breath, and then let it out in a sigh of ecstasy.

When he opened his optics, a pair of blue lights glinted from the shadows on the other side of the fire. Starscream swallowed, feeling hot and disoriented, at once grateful for Shadow's sturdy strength at his back and resentful of the mech making him this shaky in the first place. He blinked, and the pale blue stars resolved into Vault's optics, watching him. The mech was lying on his back, one arm pillowed behind his head. His cygarette was still held teasingly between his lips, and as Starscream watched he lifted it away with his fingertips and blew out a delicate stream of smoke. Guilt sat heavily in Starscream's fuel tank, and his sensornet prickled with shame. Vault's optics glimmered in the darkness. He saw no accusation in his azure gaze, and Starscream couldn't understand why shame made his sensornet prickle and his tank tighten.

Shadow held him against him and idly stroked his wings. There was no pattern now, and no goal beyond thoughtless, ridiculously tender soothing. Somehow Starscream couldn't find it in himself to lash out for that. Instead he turned his head, and Shadow was there, indigo optics knowing and pleased. Starscream growled and pressed his lips against Shadow's. It was his own kind of revenge, and the old mech was satisfyingly startled. Starscream held onto him for several astroseconds while he kissed him, and when his glossa darted into Shadow's mouth to touch his the older jet stiffened beautifully.

Shadow moved back before Starscream relented. He rested his hand on Starscream's cockpit, his other on a wing. Looking into Starscream's optics, he murmured, “Now do you see?”

Starscream didn't, not really, but he thought he understood at least a part of what Shadow had been trying to show him. In a way, it felt like a homecoming. He leaned in, looking for another kiss. After a small hesitation, Shadow gave it to him. In that moment Starscream was willing to offer more than Shadow had been looking for, and it seemed Shadow wasn't sure if he should take it. Starscream didn't know what his relationship with his wingmates was, or what ties bound a Xerissan trine and which didn't. He did know that he was in the arms of a strong, handsome mech who had just made him come just by petting his wings, and who had made him feel, for the first time in a long, long time, that he was home.

Shadow rested his brow against Starscream's, and for a long, peaceful moment they simply remained there, hanging in indecision, and it was as if the world around them had faded away. Then Shadow was moving away, was carefully getting up, and Starscream gasped as the real world came flooding back. For an instant he was bereft – rejected and alone – until Shadow reached down and took his hand and helped him to his feet. His other hand rested on Starscream's waist to steady him. Starscream's wits returned with his sense of reality.

“You're a beautiful mech, Starscream,” Shadow was saying. “The soul of Vos burns in your chamber, even if your processor doesn't remember.”

“Whatever the slag that means,” Starscream muttered. He took a deep breath. “Goodnight, Shadow,” he said. He wasn't well enough versed with the customs of his home city to make sense of the night's events, but he knew he was ready to recharge. Shadow nodded, and they parted ways, Shadow stepping away and blending into the shadows as he moved through the camp to the tent he had claimed as he own.

Starscream turned back to the fire. As he did so, he searched the darkness for Vault. But there was no sign of his bright blue optics – every bot was either recharging or had left, without Starscream even realising. Vault was gone. Starscream couldn't name why that caused a pang of sharp pain in his chest, or why he suddenly felt unspeakably lonely. His face screwed up in a grimace, and he tried to reach the mech on his comms. He got no response.

“Slag! Primus frag it all!” he hissed. He scrubbed at his face, suddenly feeling very tired. At some point it had become late in the night, and Starscream had stepped out of his depth. He paced angrily, and then kicked dirt on the fire. Swearing under his breath, he returned to the ship, stalked up the ramp, and back to his rooms.

Megatron was there when he arrived. He stood in the doorway and glared at the mech on the berth – Megatron wasn't asleep, but was poring over a data-pad, and looked up when Starscream entered. Starscream took a deep breath, and it was all he could do not to take everything out on Megatron. But he couldn't... not now, not after everything, not after the night before. He felt hopelessly adrift and alone, and the thought of severing even the fragile tie he had with Megatron, and ruining everything they had managed to build in their short time since Akeron, was too awful to contemplate.

“Not a word,” he hissed. “Not one slagging word.”

Megatron, miraculously, honoured his request. Starscream threw himself on the free side of the bed, tucked his wings in close to his back and curled on his side. Megatron quietly put his datapad down, and turned down the lights.

Starscream kept his optics pressed shut as he listened to and felt the old mech move around, setting the pad down on the bedside, and then shifting on the berth until he lay on his back. Starscream's claws cut into the mattress as silence fell. Megatron wasn't asleep, he could hear his even intakes, not slow or deep enough for recharge. Starscream couldn't relax. Eventually, after maybe half a joor of restless, tense waiting, Starscream turned over in a huff. Megatron's optics opened, two points of scarlet light in the dark, and then Starscream pressed his cheek against Megatron's chest. He draped his arm over him, holding onto his shoulder, and grit his teeth, just waiting for Megatron's disparaging words. Starscream felt lost; Shadow had given him a taste of something he had been without for millions of years, and he had never known it or felt its absence until tonight. A taste, and only a brief one, and even though it had turned bitter at the end Starscream was still left craving – and so, he clung to Megatron, even though he knew it was a pathetic and surefire invitation for humiliation.

After a moment of agonising stillness, Megatron surprised him. He didn't speak, but his arm came up around Starscream's shoulders. His engines rumbled softly, and he turned his head, and Starscream thought he felt him nuzzle the top of his helm, just lightly. Starscream drew a deep and shaky breath. Megatron did nothing else, and before long his intakes lengthened and his frame relaxed, and Starscream knew he had finally fallen asleep. Starscream, in spite of his racing processor and aching, empty chamber, found himself lulled by the warmth and companionship. His EM field automatically synchronised with Megatron's, and this hastened his own passage into sleep. Blessedly, he didn't dream.

 

* * *

 

The next morning dawned bright and clear. Starscream awoke still twined in Megatron's arms. He wasn't able to enjoy the novel warmth, however, as recollection hit him at once like a weight. He groaned and started to pull away from Megatron. Megatron, awake now, let him. He watched him with curious optics, but Starscream ignored him and stalked to the washracks instead.

The rest of their morning passed as was routine. Once Starscream was clean and had a cup of oil in his tank, he descended with Megatron to the camp. When they reached the command area, Strika and Tappet were there, and Cyclonus approaching. Starscream looked around, but he saw no sign of Shadow or Vault.

The morning's meeting seemed to happen around him. Starscream took it in in a blur. Some of the officers wanted to move on Cybertron, while others advised caution, and were accused of cowardice. Megatron mediated it all, and yet again failed to make a choice. If Starscream had been more present, he might have noticed how Megatron's indecision was the result of his fear – Shockwave had taken his real power from him for a long time, and now, when it was finally back in his hands, he was paralysed by the knowledge that a wrong decision would mean the real and final end of everything they had always fought for. Starscream had thought him an unworthy leader for so long, before Earth; now, after his defeat and a mere thousand years of isolation, the same belief had crept into Megatron's spark.

Shadow had gone flying. He missed his trine and his home, and even though he didn't doubt the mission Whisper had sent him on was important, he still couldn't help but wonder if she couldn't have sent somebot else but her own wingmate in his stead.

And as for Vault... while his counterpart Blitzwing sat in on the morning meeting like a dutiful Decepticon, Vault sulked and hid. It wasn't so much spark-ache, but anger at himself. It wasn't something he was used to feeling, in spite of the many poor mistakes he had made over the course of his long and interesting life. “You poor, lovesick fool,” Blackarachnia had said to him that night, as he made his way away from the _Rebellion_ to join her and Glaive, Flintlock, and a few of the other bots from the _Erebos_ around their smaller camp-fire. They had been toasting some of the energon goodies left-over from Swindle's cache, holding them over the fire on skewers until they became crispy and crystallised on the outside, yet gooey and sweet inside. He had seen the knowing look on Blarackarachnia's face, and been grateful when Flintlock offered him a new cygarette to replace the one he had stubbed out just before leaving Starscream. He hadn't bothered to ask her what she meant; he supposed it was no secret the way he idolised Starscream. Still, that hadn't stopped her from continuing, “I've known him longer than you, mech. He's not worth hanging your hopes on. He'll take your loyalty and demand your spark, and give you nothing back but a headache.”

He had searched the faces of the bots there, and seen nothing but agreement in their faces. For some reason, their detached sympathy made him feel all the worse. “I never asked for anything back from him,” he had said gruffly.

“That's just as well,” Blackarachnia had said. “It's not that he's not... capable of feeling for others. It's just that when he does love, he throws his whole spark into it, and demands as much in return. It's destroyed him before...”

“What's your point?”

She had only shrugged and put another energon goodie over the fire. “Nothing, really. You'll do whatever you want to do. Just don't expect him to care or notice when he hurts you.”

“Thanks for your concern.” He hadn't stayed long, after that. He had felt weary and disappointed, more in himself than in Starscream. He had never made any formal claim upon the jet, and Starscream was free to do as he pleased. In fact, Vault couldn't really pinpoint exactly what it was that bothered him so much, except for the small and laughable thought – _I just always thought it would be Megatron_.

And now the morning had come, and he was tired and sleepless, his frame running on energon goodies and oil. He skipped the meeting even though his rank demanded it of him. He had always been excellent at shirking his responsibilities, however, and so he avoided it in the hopes of avoiding Starscream. Instead, he went to check on the prisoners.

He had delegated the feeding and care of the two Autobots to an underling, name of Mortice, but this morning he felt like visiting them himself. Talking to the ex-Prime was a tiresome experience, the little bot always either adamant that Vault couldn't abandon his Autobot values, or else spitefully reminding Vault of his status as a filthy traitor. Vault had reminded him that he was a 'Con before he became an Autobot, but the venom in the little Prime's optics had never diminished.

This morning the brig was quiet. That alone made him frown. Usually there were small sounds – the Prime pulling at his chains, or the old bot telling some rambling tale. Today there was only silence. He paced the darkened hallway toward the small cells at the end in trepidation, already knowing what he would find.

There hadn't been many escapes from Akeron. Escape attempts, of those he had seen plenty. The bots who tried it had always been caught, and had suffered for it. Before Starscream, no mech had managed to actually fly from that cage. And so, when Vault saw the empty cells, he felt a strange sense of professional embarrassment – before Starscream no prisoner had escaped on his watch, and now it seemed he had lost his touch.

He cycled a breath. Held himself still for a silent moment, hoping that if he just didn't move nothing would happen... and then he went to raise the alarm.

The first bot he found when he left the ship was Shadow. In fact he literally ran into him, and almost bowled the older bot down. Shadow gripped his shoulders and steadied them both, and Vault found himself in the revolting situation of wanting to say “thank you”. He didn't, and pushed the bot away instead.

“Where the slag is Mortice?” he growled. Shadow looked bewildered, and jerked away from him. There were bots idling around, and he gestured to them. “The prisoners have escaped,” he called sharply. “Who was on guard last night?” A confusion of voices was his reply, as bots scrambled into search teams, perimeter guards were summoned, and somewhere in the rabble, Starscream appeared. He was at Megatron's side, but the old warlord was forgotten as Starscream, Shadow, and Vault faced each other. Starscream met both their optics, and looked about to flee, when Vault drew a breath and spoke. “Lord Starscream,” he said, his tone formal. He was embarrassed enough to report this failure – the events of last night only made it worse. “The two Autobot prisoners have disappeared.”

Starscream nodded. “I see.” This was not the time to talk about their personal entanglements, but the tension hung between them like a web of sharp wire. “Vault-”

“Please, sir, I should go and find-” He was turning away, but Starscream lunged and grabbed his wrist. He turned and met the seeker's ruby eyes. In that moment he swore Starscream could have destroyed him, he could have reached out and torn his spark out and Vault would have let him. Then the spell broke, and Vault twisted his wrist from Starscream's grip. “I should go and find the sentries. They might have seen something.”

Starscream nodded dumbly and let him go. Shadow stood by, his arms folded, a strange look in his eye.

Starscream turned on him. “This is your fault,” he hissed. “This is all your fault!” He turned and stormed away. Shadow watched him go, bewildered and hurt. He had made a misstep here, but Primus only knew what had really transpired.

Starscream returned to Megatron's side, his wings hiked up high and tense and his EM field jangling with nerves and temper. The bots Megatron was conferring with picked up on it, and shifted uncomfortably when the seeker joined the group.

“Starscream,” Megatron said. His own field was like a cool, placid pool, and Starscream felt its effect on him as he stood beside him, calming his discordant energies. “Recurve and Torpor had the guard last night,” he said, gesturing to one of the bots assembled, a small blue and green mech that had the look of an Autobot about him. His expression was guilt-ridden, and his green optics scared. “Recurve here said that at 2300 hours he left the brig to fetch an extra engex ration from the stores on the _Rebels' Flight_. When- well, Recurve, why don't you report?”

The small bot twisted his fingers together in nervous knots as he looked up at them, his optics flicking anxiously from one Decepticon lord to the other.

“Well, Lord Starscream sir, it was as Lord Megatron says. I got back from the _Flight_ with some extra cubes,” he said, referring to Tappet's Quint-built ship, stolen from the desert of Torkulon. “Since- well, I knew Stringer from the mines, and Torpor said he wouldn't say no to another ration, and-”

“Yes, yes, get on with it,” Starscream snapped. He brought his fingers to his temple.

Recurve bit his lip, and continued. “Well, when I got back to the cells, Torpor was gone. He was supposed to wait at the entrance to the brig, so when I saw him gone I figured he had just gone to drain his tank, you know? But he didn't come back in the next half joor, so I went to look for him. I got as far as the wood behind the ship, and then-” He spread his hands and shrugged.

“Then? What?” Starscream snapped, looking from Recurve to Megatron.

“A perimeter guard found Recurve early this morning on her morning rounds,” Megatron supplied. “He had been knocked out with a blunt blow to the head, and left bound in stasis cuffs in the underbrush.” Starscream thought the little bot looked supremely embarrassed. “Needless to say, the brig is missing several pairs of cuffs.”

Starscream's headache got abruptly worse. “Wonderful,” he said. 


	8. S.O.S.

Rodimus and Kup weren't as far from the Decepticon ship as they had hoped. They'd fled on foot at first, Kup not trusting the wood to cover the sounds of their engines. It would have been suicide to use their lights anyway. Once they were clear of the trees, they took a long route across country, circling back around to the hab-block just as dawn began to break. Rodimus saw the sky begin to lighten with a sense of panic in his spark. It was only a matter of time before their escape was noted, if it hadn't been already. Once the Decepticons found them, he didn't think they would bother with taking prisoners again. This time it would be death.

He whispered a prayer of thanks to the Allspark when they reached their home and found no Decepticon sentries roaming the yard. Kup led him around to the back of the sprawling, low building. Rodimus's frame was aching with every step he took as his old damage flared up. Through some miracle, they made it to the building and got inside. The interior of the building that had once been their home had been ransacked. The Decepticons had taken every drop of fuel, and trashed most of the living quarters. Rodimus curled his lip in disgust, and Kup shook his head. Kup headed for the communications centre on the top floor. Rodimus followed him as far as his own room. There he turned in, gazed around cautiously, and stepped inside. It seemed the 'Cons had been rather less interested in the private recharge quarters than in the fuel store downstairs, and his room seemed largely untouched. He tip-toed across the bare room to the a concealed locker in the back wall. It opened when he traced a glyph on its surface with his finger, reading his particular CNA code. The doors slid apart smoothly, revealing a lovingly stored, gleaming red energy bow. 

This time he wouldn't leave without it. He lifted it out of its locker carefully. He hadn't taken this weapon out of its case in stellar cycles. Once he had it in his hand, and activated the bow to test it still worked, he felt different somehow. Safer, more confident, and more like himself. It was ridiculous – his damage was too extensive for him to be an effective soldier. It was why he had retired from the Elite Guard. But he hoped that, if it came to it, he could still at least shoot straight. 

He pulled the glowing energy bowstring back, sighting along an imaginary arrow at a portrait of himself on the wall – an old picture, taken back at the Academy. That mech had died a thousand years ago, but the one holding the bow now hopefully wouldn't shame him too much. He smiled grimly, and his spark felt a measure of peace. 

“Kid!” The moment was shattered by Kup's urgent cry from the comm room. Rodimus took the bow and limped hurriedly to his side. 

“What is it?” 

In answer, Kup jabbed a finger at the sensor readouts that showed the layout of the hab-block and the surrounding yard. “Decepticons incoming.”

“Frag. Kup- Kup, what do we do?” Rodimus, once a Prime of the Autobot Elite Guard, now turned to his old mentor for guidance as panic gripped his spark. He wasn't the warrior he once was, he knew that all too well. Against an army, the odds were worse than impossible.

“Relax, lad,” Kup replied. He had found a cygar from somewhere, and he held it between his teeth. “Something's blocking the comms signals from here. Probably the Deceptiscum. Somebot's gonna have to get beyond the jamming field and get a message to Command."

“You couldn't get through to Iacon?”

Kup shook his head. “No time to keep tryin'. Look!”He jabbed a finger at the readouts. “We've got to move now if we don't want our skidplates handed to us-” 

“We're slagged,” Rodimus murmured.

“Not yet,” Kup said. He stared at the screen. Rodimus waited, body tense, waiting for his mentor's word. “You'l have to take the old shuttle.”

“What? They'll shoot me out of the sky-”

“Don't argue with me,” Kup growled, fixing him with an intense stare. The cygar to the floor as he grabbed both of Rodimus's shoulders. Rodimus could hear the approach of jet engines. “Listen, lad. You think anybot knows they're here? There's an army out there, just waiting for the day to move on Cybertron, and if nobot gets word to the Elite Guard then that's exactly what's going to slagging happen.”

“But what about you?” 

“There's still a few pop-guns in the armoury. I'll hold 'em off until you can get away. Look, I know it's not a good plan, but what other options have we got?”

Rodimus swallowed and stared. Kup was his sergeant, his mentor, and his oldest friend. He didn't feel up to the task, not at all. If he stayed and fought alongside him, then maybe- … Then maybe he could die right along with him, too - and everything Kup predicted would come true.

Kup's optics narrowed. "And before you try to tell me it's better for me to go and you stay, you just delete that fool notion right out of your head. You're a young bot with your whole life still ahead of you, and what's more I'm giving you a slagging order. Now, get out of here."

Rodimus hung his head. Kup turned him and clapped him on the back. 

“Get going! Take the back way, and drive like Unicron himself is on your bumper, got it?”

There was a crash from downstairs. Rodimus was only glad they hadn't blasted off the roof and come in that way.

There was no time for a goodbye. Kup shoved him and Rodimus dashed for the rear stairs. Kup ran the opposite way, heading for the armoury. Rodimus sent a prayer his way, as he went careening down the stairs toward the back door. He burst through it and was immediately faced with a group of Decepticons. He reacted on instinct, his Elite training making him act before his processor had even caught up enough to tell him he couldn't do it. He drew his bow and fired blazing arrows of golden light, and then again. His first two shots took 'Cons in the head, but his third shot went wide as a burly tank alt drew a cannon on him, and he was forced to dodge. The shot splintered the door behind him and sent up a cloud of acrid smoke. Rodimus didn't stop to trade blows with the two 'Cons left, the tank and a smaller, black-armoured mech. He dived, transformed, and then he was away, in a cloud of gravel and dust spat up by his spinning tyres. 

As he drove away from the hab-block, he heard the rhythmic _boom boom_ of the antique plasma cannons they only kept in the armoury for scaring off the occasional pirate that landed, or some of Arelline's larger organic predators. Kup was drawing their attention, and Rodimus's spark almost stopped when he heard the rattle of the Decepticons' return fire. He forced himself to keep going, to keep driving. The black mech tried to follow him on foot, but for some reason he didn't transform, and Rodimus soon left him behind. He circled the hab block, then veered off onto a dirt track that led through a scrubby copse of trees toward the old hangar. It was a half forgotten building constructed of scrap metal and covered over with creeping organic foliage, but within it was the small shuttle he and Kup had used to come here, and which they still used whenever they had occasion to leave the planet. For the most part, they hired external freighters to handle the export of the energon crops, but sometimes they still needed to make trips off-world for supplies. When they did, it was this antique that they used.

Kup maintained it was a relic from the first Great War. Rodimus privately suspected it was even older still. But no matter where or when it came from, somehow it still functioned. Rodimus skidded up to the hangar door, transformed, and was still running as he threw the doors open and burst inside. He was inside the rusty old shuttle in a moment, and he desperately went through the complex process of firing the little craft up, praying every second that none of the 'Cons were too close on his tail. He could still hear the sounds of battle at the house, which meant – so he hoped – that Kup was still online... for now. 

Once the shuttle's engines were warmed up, he eased the craft out of the hangar, and then engaged its upward thrusters. It was achingly slow, and his spark hurt with the pain of anticipation, thinking every astrosecond would be his last. Miraculously, he got the shuttle into the sky. He engaged every ounce of power it possessed, and punched a course straight up toward the atmosphere. 

Somebot must have seen him. Maybe Kup had fallen, and they had cast their optics around for their second escapee, or perhaps it was simply that a rusty antique shuttle taking off was just too visible and noisy to ignore. Whatever had happened, he heard the _rat-at-at_ of gunfire and the shuttle jounced as shots glanced off its tail. Any second there would be jets in the air, and then Rodimus would be well and truly finished. The shuttle had no weapons, only a grapple at the front, for getting it out of sticky situations. 

Rodimus closed his optics and prayed to the Allspark for a little bit of luck, beseeching Primus himself for this one little break. The ship's sensors bleeped to tell him aerials were in pursuit, and Rodimus shook his head, ready to scream as he knew Kup's sacrifice had been for nothing.  

Then the shuttle reached the atmosphere. The former Prime held on tight as the reliable old hunk of junk shuttle punched its way defiantly through - only to come face to face with one of the Decepticon ships, lying in wait in orbit around the planet. 

The ship, huge and dark and terrifying, powered up its cannons. Rodimus did the only thing he could think of to do. He activated the shuttle's grapple and shot a line directly at the front of the warship; once the hook bit, he slammed his fist down on the button to reel it in. The warship opened fire. Rodimus jerked as the line between his shuttle and the Decepticon ship went suddenly taut, and then the shuttle juddered and creaked. The grapple worked, though it almost tore the craft apart to be yanked forward so suddenly. The warship's cannon-fire hit the rear of the shuttle, and Rodimus held onto his seat for dear life. Just a little more, just a little closer... then the shuttle's nose connected with the hull of the warship, and he was jolted forward and almost through the splintering screen. He was out of range of the cannons only because he was too close to the ship for them to shoot. 

The shuttle was breaking apart. When the front screen finally shattered, sending crystalline pieces of glass floating outward in a glittering cloud, Rodimus lunged forward. He had his bow on his back, and a burning arrow in each hand. The pain of his old injuries was forgotten as he launched himself upward and swung his arm, and embedded both fiery arrows in the outer hull of the ship. He held on grimly, his hands burning as they gripped the energy arrows for dear life. The ship was moving, slowly, pressing forward and breaking the poor shuttle to pieces. Rodimus grit his teeth and forced his screaming frame to move. He pulled out one arrow, reached up, and dug it back in, and then repeated with the other – with no gravity to drag him down, he was able to travel hand over hand up the curving prow of the ship, although he prayed with each moment that he wouldn't get dislodged and go spiralling off into space. 

Which was exactly what almost happened, an instant later. The ship lurched, coming to a standstill, and Rodimus's grip failed. One arrow slid away from his hand, and it was only by a hairs-breadth that he managed to keep a hold on the other. He was floating, weightless, and he knew his grip would fail at any moment. As he floated upward, he scrabbled at the smooth side of the ship. The arrow slipped from his grip and dissolved back into formless light as Rodimus drifted up. He strained, his fingertips brushing the surface of the ship, trying to grab onto any seam, any ridge or bump. He managed to hook the fingers of one hand onto the top of the communications array, at the top of the ship – just a spark's beat away from having drifted away, unanchored, forever. He held on with every ounce of strength he had, silently sobbing at the desperate effort.

His grip was slipping. The blackness of space yawned above and around him, promising an endless solitary exile until eventually his spark gave out from lack of fuel. It was lonely and cold and terrifyingly vast, and it seemed to become more imminent the longer Rodimus struggled to maintain his fragile hold. His fingers slipped, and he cast his optics frantically around. There. Just as his fingertips slipped completely and the array escaped his grip, he spied what he hoped desperately was an airlock. For a spark-stopping moment he drifted, unanchored, as the ship moved beneath him. It was getting away from him, in a matter of astroseconds he would be left behind. Then his reaching fingers grabbed the edge of the round hatch, and he hooked his fingertips in hard. Baring his teeth he pulled himself close, and thanked Primus as he saw there was an emergency release button next to the hatch. He slammed his fist down on it, and the hatch opened with a hydraulic hiss. 

Rodimus pulled himself down into the airlock, and shut the hatch behind him. The small vestibule started to pressurise, and the ship's artificial gravity took effect. He let out a long sigh of relief as his pedes touched the floor. 

It wasn't over yet, of course. He was far from home free. 

He unslung his bow and crept toward the inner hatch. An alarm was sounding, and a violet light flashed in the room beyond. He took another breath. They had to know the airlock had opened. Carefully, he opened the hatch. He pulled back on the bowstring and a fresh arrow formed, fire made solid, lighting up the room as he stepped inside.

It was shadowy and empty. Some kind of armoury, it looked like – the hatch he had entered through was not the main airlock, but he assumed this space was for arming up before heading out of the ship on a mission, particularly for airborne frame-types. Rodimus's optics travelled over the darkly glinting barrels of cannons and edges of blades made for bots far bigger than him. He swallowed and kept low. His frame, overtaxed and never fully healed from Chaar, creaked and burned with pain. His every footstep seemed too loud, and he swore each movement he made caused a rusty creak loud enough to alert the entire ship.

He hadn't yet reached the exit when the door slid open. Rodimus had his bow up and drawn before the Decepticon even stepped inside. He didn't hesitate and shot true, catching the 'Con right through the helm. The big bot fell forward and landed heavily, and his partner launched through the portal with a cannon lifted. Rodimus threw himself behind a rack of knives. One shot went off, and Rodimus curled up and then hurriedly crawled in the opposite direction. He heard a Decepticon's voice say, “Are you crazy? You'll blow a hole in the ship.”

Rodimus took a breath, and stood up. He fired over the weapon racks and caught the bot with the gun in the optic. The arrow shimmered and evaporated, leaving the optic cracked and pink, and as the 'Con fell his partner threw a knife. Rodimus dodged, moved with a speed he hadn't managed since before Chaar, and fired again. This arrow hit straight in the Decepticon's spark, and he saw the blue-white crackle of energy radiate out from the dead bot's chest. Electricity rippled all over the 'Con's armour for a moment, holding his frame stiff, and then it went dark and he fell. 

Rodimus held himself still, a fresh arrow already nocked and his bow drawn. He trained his aim at the door. The three Decepticons had fallen together, piled on top of one another. Any other bot entering would have to either move them or clamber over the top, which would leave them an easy shot. 

Rodimus waited, but no other bots came. He hardly dared to draw a breath. After a few astroseconds he knew he had to move. If he waited too long they might reopen the airlock and blast him out into space, or perhaps activate some other, hidden internal defence. He had no hope of stowing away unknown, not now – his only hope was to go all in.

Carefully he crossed the armoury. He had to climb over the fallen Decepticons to get out, and he stumbled as he landed on a rust-weakened ankle. He rose quickly, and looked around to get his bearings. The alarm was still blaring, and the flashing violet lights made it hard to think. He had expected more of a welcoming party. 

He picked a direction at random and ran as quietly as he could. The hallways of the ship were taller and broader than on any Autobot craft Rodimus had been on, and twisted and turned in seemingly inexplicable routes. He almost literally ran into another pair of Decepticons as he rounded one such tight corner. He fired hastily, but his shot went wide and the arrow went streaking into the shadows and embedded in the far wall. The Decepticon he had aimed at, a big, heavily-built combat model, roared and swung at him with some kind of hammer. Rodimus sprang backward and stumbled. He managed to form another arrow and fire it just as the big 'Con lunged. It sank into the soft protoflesh just beneath his jaw and up through his processor. Rodimus's optics widened as the 'Con began to fall. He rolled aside, bending his spoiler in the process, and got out of the way just before the mech crashed to the floor, narrowly avoiding being pinned or crushed. He didn't have time to breathe, however – the second Decepticon, a slim mech with dark paint and malevolent red optics – was closing on him, a blaster in his hand. 

He grabbed the big 'Con's gun, raised it hurriedly, and fired blind. The slim mech's gun went off at the same moment, and there was a ringing moment of confusion when everything seemed to hang suspended and still, and then the dark bot fell, and Rodimus was, miraculously, still online. 

He swallowed thickly. His spark was pulsing quickly and heavily, and he expected at any moment to be killed. When no further attack came, he gingerly got back to his feet, dropped the gun, and bolted. 

When he reached the bridge, he found it empty. Not stopping to wonder at it, he limped to the nav terminal and wrangled with the controls. He set a course for the nearest space bridge and engaged the ship's engines on full. He owed it to Kup to survive this. He owed it to his friend and mentor to survive, and to get word to Cybertron. In all likelihood Kup was already offline, and Rodimus couldn't allow his sacrifice to be in vain. 

He locked the bridge doors. After the first half a joor of flight he realised that the ship had been operating on a skeleton crew, the rest of its personnel having already disembarked to Arelline's surface. 

No one had fired on him as he had guided the ship away from its fellows and the planet they surrounded. He supposed the destruction of the shuttle had spelled the end of him to any bots watching from a distance, and even Decepticons would hesitate to fire on one of their own – by the time the word got out that he had escaped and got onto the ship he did, he was already too far away to even know if they pursued him. 

He had to turn away from the space bridge before he got too close - too many Decepticon signals. They had clearly claimed the bridge for their own use, and Rodimus didn't dare try his luck blagging his way past them, even if he was in one of their own ships. Instead he set a different course toward Cybertron, and resigned himself to wait and hope that his flimsy luck would hold out. 

Without the space bridges, he was in for a long flight. All alone on the Decepticon ship, Rodimus sank into a chair and put his head in his hands. His whole body was hurting, still shaking, and in a few joors he would barely be able to move. His spark was still racing. In his Elite Guard days this would have been an adventure all in a cycle's work, but he was a thousand years out of practice, his confidence shattered at the same moment his body had been almost destroyed.

He didn't know how long he sat there, overwhelmed and afraid. He did know that his clarity returned to him after an indeterminate time, and he lifted his head from his hands to contemplate the silent bridge with a new-found presence of mind. 

He limped his way back to the control terminal. With shaking fingers, Rodimus opened up the communications interface. He frowned, biting the tip of his glossa in concentration. He wasn't an expert in such matters, and Kup's anecdotes and training had always been more combat-oriented than communications, but even the lowliest camp cadet was taught how to configure an S.O.S. In the lonely silence of the Decepticon ship _Erebos_ 's bridge, Rodimus recorded a distress signal, warning of a Decepticon presence amassing on the farming planet Arelline, and set it to broadcasting on repeat on every available Autobot-coded channel. 

Like as not he would attract more 'Cons than Autobots. He gave a wry grimace at the irony of escaping his Decepticon captors only to lure them back to him with the very beacon he hoped was his salvation. Still, there was nothing else to be done - if that happened, then at least there was still the possibility his message got through to somebot who could carry it back to the Guard so they could act on it. Even if Rodimus himself was killed, at least it wouldn't be for nothing. 

Once the signal was coded and sent out, he slumped back into his seat. There, exhausted, Rodimus fell into a deep and deeply troubled sleep. 


	9. The Right Thing

By the time Prowl and Drift were finished cleaning up the dojo, the day had worn on. Prowl felt pleasantly tired, and was satisfied with the knowledge of a good job done well.

The feeling of something being wrong didn't hit him until he finally emerged from the sanctum. He looked around the clearing but all was still, and the solvent in the pool was smooth as glass without even a ripple. Drift glanced at him, uncertainty in his optics.

“Lockdown?” Prowl called. He frowned. He realised, then, that he hadn't seen the hunter since before they started to clean up the sanctuary. “Do you know where he went?” he asked Drift.

Drift shrugged. “Can't you use your, uh... you know, your powers?”

Prowl was about to dismiss the suggestion, but then he thought,  _why not._  “He's probably somewhere around here,” he murmured, but still he tried. He focused and reached out, searching for the particular frequency, the particular essence of Lockdown's spark, which Prowl had touched the previous night when he had connected to both his and Drift's core energies. All he found was an echo, a kind of a trail, that led into the forest.

Suddenly deeply unsettled, Prowl transformed and raced after the trail, following it into the silver trees. Drift called his name, but Prowl paid him no attention. He drove fast, pushing himself, until he reached a broad clearing. He transformed and stepped forward. Here the ground bore marks where something large and heavy had rested. He glanced around, from the swaying grass to the landmark boulder, to the huge empty space where the  _Death's Head_  should have been.

Drift caught up with him about five kliks later. Prowl was still standing in the empty patch of ground, staring up at a clear, star-studded sky. He barely heard Drift approach and transform, but he was tangentially aware of the nearness of his spark. He felt cold and stunned, still not quite believing.

“Prowl? Prowl.” He slowly became aware that Drift was talking to him. Drift's hand landed on his shoulder, and Prowl abruptly snapped out of it. His optics met the other bot's. “What is it? What's out here?”

“Nothing,” Prowl said, and his vocals sounded quiet and hollow. “There's nothing out here. He's gone.”

“Gone? What-”

Prowl snatched his arm away from Drift's compassionate touch. “Gone. Do you see a spacecraft here?” He walked away from Drift, paced back and forth, while Drift watched him helplessly. Then he transformed, and without another word he drove deeper into the woods, leaving Drift behind alone.

He drove until he reached the edge of the wood. There he switched to root mode and approached the break in the trees slowly, on foot. He activated his holo-generator, and stood in the shade of one of the mirrored silver trees. Beyond, the city of Iacon stretched beyond the horizon. Roads and buildings filled his vision, and bots of all colours driving and walking past, talking, going about their busy, normal lives. This had been Prowl's home, once. It seemed long ago, and in truth it was – he had left a million years ago when Yoketron had died, and he hadn't been back since. Before then Cybertron had been his home, and for a time, Earth had been too. But now, looking at the bustling city, he felt like an alien, like an outsider looking through a window into a world he didn't know. This wasn't his home anymore, no more than Drift's refuge or his own old quarters within the sanctuary were. Since he returned to this life, he had known one home, and it was one he had never expected to think of as such – the spacecraft  _Death's Head_. Lockdown's ship, and, ever more recently, his as well.

He stood there for a long while. He wondered about going back to Drift, back to the sanctuary, but then he couldn't think of a single reason why he should. Selfishly, he wanted nothing more than to leave the whole place behind. He had done what was needed, paid his respects, laid Yoketron and his own demons finally to rest. He had thought that both he and Lockdown had turned a new page, and the future had started to look, if not bright, then certainly promising. But now he was stranded and alone, and the thought of relying on Drift's continued hospitality and charity was too much to bear. No, much better to put an end to this chapter altogether...

He took a deep breath, deactivated his hologram, and stepped out of the forest.

No-bot noticed him. The few that saw him, their optics glanced off him without recognition. A thousand years had passed since the victory parades, a thousand years since his funeral, when he was buried with honour and hailed a hero, or so Ghost and Drift had told it. He had the same base model as many other bots, and in a crowded city, he was just another mech, just another stranger.

He walked like a bot in a trance. He didn't know where he was, didn't remember the city well enough. But he glanced up and around, and there – he saw the towering gun of Fortress Maximus, and there, the silhouette of the Metroplex, the glittering heights of the Towers. The bots may have short memories, but a thousand years was too short a time to change the shape of the city. He moved through the streets without direction, without aim. He walked until he grew tired of walking, and then he transformed and drove instead.

He didn't stop until he reached the city limits.

This part of the city  _had_  changed, or else his memory core was glitching. A million years ago, Iacon had spread from one side of the continent to the other. Now he found himself staring out at a landscape of dereliction, empty buildings giving way, in the distance, to arid, cracked desert. The Cybertron of his youth was bright and teeming with life, even in the seedier sectors of the inner city. This desolate view was a far cry from the land of Prowl's memories. 

He turned away from the arid wilderness. Somehow his feet guided him to the door of a small, slightly dingy building, which nevertheless had windows that glowed with a warm and welcoming light, like a beacon drawing him. He heard muted voices from within. He gazed up at the colourful sign, and then at the double-doors. Some kind of bar, maybe...?

It wasn't yet down-shift, but it wouldn't be long. He pushed, and the doors swung open. The interior of the building was softly lit and warm. Prowl found his way to a table in the back. He sank into a chair, staring without seeing, and rested his forehead in his hands.

A short time later, a femme with bright red paint twirled over to his table, wheels in her heels. That inconsequential detail reminded Prowl of Bumblebee, of all the odd things to remember. He wondered where all his old friends were now. It seemed a lifetime away. He glanced up at the waitress, and it was then that he realised he had left his visor on the Death's Head. Being without it limited his peripheral vision to a normal bot's parameters, but with everything with Drift and Yoketron, Prowl just hadn't noticed. He felt strangely naked without it.

He ordered an energon tea and watched the femme smile and skate away. He had his winnings from Andala, at least; he wasn't sure if he would be able to access any of his accounts, and he could safely assume that using Lockdown's creds was out of the question now. He thanked the femme when she brought his fuel, and hoped the Andalan crystals would be enough.

The bar was quiet this time of day, it seemed. He watched the patrons with a detached, mild interest, while all the while his processor raced within his helm. He was stranded with no transport and very few creds. He could present himself at the Fortress and hope Optimus Prime or somebot in the Guard would believe who he was and take him in, and he could live on their largesse until he got settled in. He toyed with a foil napkin while he mulled over the possibility. Of course, he did have another option, he began to realise. He remembered his last night with Ghost, how earnest the little mech had been, how hard he had tried to convince Prowl. He wondered where the bot had gone, after disappearing at the Falling Star. Prowl hadn't seen a sign of him or Whipcord since the battle, and he had been too busy since arriving on Cybertron to have given it much thought. Guilt bothered him now – for all he knew they could both have been deactivated in the battle on the space-station, and Prowl would be none the wiser.

The option his processor prompted him with now was this: Ghost had mentioned that Whipcord had kin here on Cybertron. What he had really meant, when Prowl had managed to earn sufficient trust to get the truth out of him, was that there existed a safehouse – possibly more than one – for escaped slaves such as Whipcord somewhere here on Cybertron. Ghost claimed to work on behalf of an organisation dedicated to the philanthropic task of locating and bringing in bots in Whip's situation. Prowl still had his doubts about that claim – as had Whip, who had convinced Lockdown – but Ghost had been adamant.

If the Towers-built mech had made it off the Falling Star, Prowl was certain that was where he would go. And, maybe, he might even have Whipcord with him.

Whether he did or not, Prowl's curiosity niggled at him. “What kin would a Decepticon ever have there, outside of Trypticon and the labour pits?”, Whipcord had said. What kin, indeed?

He paid for his tea and left. It turned out the crystals from the Andala arena were more than enough – he received ample credit chits in change, which he stowed in his subspace. Back out on the street, down-shift had finally fallen. He had expected to face the night alone, the first step in his new and lonely quest.

Instead he met Drift. The white mech had his arms folded and one brow raised as he met Prowl coming out of the bar, and Prowl realised there was no way he could avoid him or evade his sight. Instead he started walking, and Drift walked in step with him.

“What happened?” Drift demanded. “You drowning your sorrows over your lost lover?”

Prowl's lip curled. “Hardly. I just... I hadn't intended to come back. I needed a place to think.”

“I see. And did you?”

Prowl realised Drift was leading them back toward the sanctuary. Suddenly he didn't have the heart to resist. He followed meekly as they reached the forest, a sprawling park in the heart of the city, and wended their way on foot through the trees. Drift knew all the winding paths by heart, better even than Prowl, and all Prowl had to do was follow.

“I did,” he replied. “Drift, I think there's something I need to do here.”

“More than you've already done?” Drift watched him with soulful blue optics.

Prowl nodded. Twilight in the forest was eerie and calm, and made him remember his wild chase before, with Lockdown. He swallowed his anger and sense of bitter betrayal, and said, “Yes. Drift, do you know anything about an organisation that rescues, or recovers, escaped slaves? Here on Cybertron?”

“Slaves? No such thing on Cybertron,” Drift said confidently. “Why, have you lost one?”

“After a fashion,” Prowl said. They had reached the courtyard with the pool now, and Prowl forced himself not to stop. They went directly to Drift's refuge, through the garden and nestled in the cosy, sheltered glade at the back. Prowl decided his little errand could wait one more night.

He sat down at the little table in the middle of Drift's living space, and barely responded when Drift pressed a cube of something pink and potent-smelling into his hand. Drift sank into the other seat, and dragged it over so he was sitting close enough to reach out and touch Prowl on the knee. The contact brought Prowl out of his sulky reverie, and he looked first at Drift, and then at his drink. He sniffed it, and said, “Is this high-grade?”

“I have a small stock,” Drift said with a shrug. “You looked like you needed it.”

Prowl was about to protest, say he never drank the stuff, but instead he leaned over the table and put his head in his hand.

“Hey...” Drift put his hand on Prowl's shoulder, and scooted closer. “What is it? I'm sure... you know, I think he'll be back...”

Prowl shook his head. “I told him I wanted to stay on Cybertron. I suppose he thinks he's doing the right thing. It would be the first time in his spark-forsaken life,” he said.

“I guess there's a first time for everything,” Drift said. “Even for an old, bad bot to make a change.” Prowl looked up to see Drift shrug. “Trust me. I used to be a Decepticon.”

Prowl smiled. “Can I stay here tonight?” he asked.

Drift laughed at him, good-naturedly. “Of course. I was kind of hoping we could... again...” He cast his optics down, as though realising what he was asking for. Prowl's partner had left him, it was hardly appropriate to ask to 'face him again. But Prowl found it strangely endearing, and he was too angry at Lockdown for abandoning him without a word to feel as if he owed him anything. They weren't mated, and the hunter wasn't his consort. He might as well try to salvage something good from a terrible orbital cycle.

He lifted the cube to his lips and took a long sip. Then he set it down and coughed. “High-grade never did agree with me,” he said. He rose to his feet and passed the cube to Drift. “Here, you drink it.” He moved away, and Drift's round optics tracked him as he walked behind the screen. Then the white ninjabot quickly downed the remainder of the fuel and followed him.

Prowl met him behind the screen, and wrapped his arms around the other bots waist, drawing him to him. They flowed into a kiss, and Drift wasted no time in easing Prowl onto the berth. Prowl lay down on his back and made a cradle between his legs for Drift to press into. The kiss became deeper, and Prowl felt his charge begin to rise.

Drift broke the kiss and grazed his teeth over the sharp line of Prowl's cheek. Prowl shut his optics and gasped softly. “Now the question is,” Drift said, his vocals low and rougher than his usual tone. “How do you want it? Sweet and gentle? Or something harder...?”

“Drift or Deadlock?” Prowl asked with a mild smirk. He looked up into Drift's blue optics, and saw the glimmer in them that hinted at the Decepticon he had once been. He knew it shouldn't, but it thrilled him. “...Deadlock,” he whispered.

Drift smirked in response, and his face seemed to take on a sharper, more wolfish look. “Gonna frag you like a Decepticon, is that what you want?” He knelt up and ran his hands all over Prowl's frame, kneading and pinching. Prowl bit his lip and then sat up to lick and bite at the vents on Drift's abdomen. He caressed the other bot's thighs with just as much aggression, and Drift responded by giving a little growl and grabbing the back of his helm. Prowl looked up, and the expression in Drift's optics, while playful, was still verging on predatory. His panel slid away, and then suddenly the tip of his spike was nudging at Prowl's cheek. Prowl smirked in response, and surprised them both by wrapping his hand around Drift's white and red length.

Drift tipped his head back and groaned. Prowl stroked his spike, taking a moment to admire its bright colours and thick, smooth shape, and then took the head into his mouth. He had enjoyed having the thick, smooth length in his mouth the night before, and he was suddenly eager to have it again. His lips stretched, and he adjusted, and then he started to move his head back and forth, rhythmically moving up and down on Drift's spike, stroking him and sucking him both. Drift's hand tightened on his helm, and his thighs trembled.

“Ohh yeah, that's it... that's it...” Drift's hips started to move, and Prowl moved his hands to their smooth curves. Drift grinned, showing sharp teeth, a reminder from his Decepticon days. He held Prowl's helm with both hands, and started to thrust in and out of the ninja's throat. Prowl made small sounds, and slowly he remembered how to do this – how to relax, how to time and divert his intakes, how to swallow and not choke. Drift fucked his mouth, not too fast, but clearly absolutely relishing each and every deep thrust. Oral lubricant dripped from Prowl's lips onto the berth, and between his thighs his valve throbbed in need.

When Drift started to go a little harder, the head of his spike sliding into Prowl's throat each time and making it sore, he tapped on Drift's thigh to let him know to let go. He obeyed, and Prowl leant back, gasping and coughing. Drift – or Deadlock, as Prowl had requested – gave him no time to recover before pinning him down to the berth, flipping him onto his front with strong hands. Prowl offered no resistance, and was happy to be manhandled so. The ache in his valve had grown to an urgency that could not be denied. He lifted up his aft, and his panel drew back. Drift growled into his audio and rubbed his spike against Prowl's valve and aft, making Prowl shiver and whine.

“You want this?” Drift whispered. His breath was warm against Prowl's audio, and Prowl bucked up against him, his fingers curling into the crisp, clean sheets. “Does the perfect Autobot hero want my dirty Decepticon spike?”

Prowl couldn't help it – he laughed. It was just so ridiculous. And then Drift laughed too.

“Stop it! You're not supposed to laugh,” he said in between very un-Decepticon-like giggles. He was still rubbing his spike between Prowl's thighs, however, and the tingling in Prowl's valve was only getting more insistent. Smiling still, he reached down in front of him and grabbed Drift's slippery spike, and guided its tip to his opening.

“Sorry,” he offered. “Let me make it up to you?”

Drift grinned and nuzzled the side of Prowl's helm. Prowl turned his head and stole a kiss. Drift held Prowl's wrists, but as he eased his spike inside his grip shifted, and laced his fingers with Prowl's instead. Drift rolled his hips forward and down, and Prowl took a breath in as his spike slid all the way inside. Prowl gave a soft moan, and murmured against Drift's lips, “Oh, that's so nice...”

“You liar,” Drift replied, and nipped Prowl's lip. “You don't want the Decepticon at all.” He thrust his hips once, slowly, and then again sharply. Prowl arched and yowled in need. “Mm. Or maybe you do.” He thrust again, and Prowl moved to meet him. Prowl encouraged him to a fast rhythm, and Drift growled happily and fucked him just as quick and hard as he needed and wanted. Prowl's valve was wet and slick, and Drift's spike felt perfect inside it. Prowl closed his optics and held on tightly to Drift's hands. No processor-over-matter spark tricks this time, just simple, uncomplicated sex, just pleasure and connection and sweet, slippery heat and friction. Drift mouthed his neck and kissed and suckled, and as his charge built he did start to go harder on the lithe mech. He slid his knees apart, spreading Prowl's legs wider, and drove his spike again and again into Prowl's tight, willing valve until he had Prowl gasping and crying out in a blinding climax. Only then did Drift let himself go, and he came very soon after, grinding deep, his whole body pressed against Prowl's and pinning him with his weight.

Afterwards, they lay together, hot and sticky with fluids and their limbs all intertwined. Drift nuzzled Prowl's cheek, and Prowl purred like a well tuned engine.

“That was amazing,” Drift cooed. He was smiling like a fool, and he nuzzled Prowl again. Prowl rolled over, took Drift's face in his hands, and kissed him. Then they curled up together as their frames gently cooled and their energy fields sank into a cosy, peaceful harmony.

“So,” Drift said, after several kliks of sleepy and companionable silence. “We going on a hunt for your missing slave?”

Prowl snorted. “Not my slave. And _we_ aren't going anywhere. There's no reason for you to be dragged into this.”

Drift frowned and lifted himself up on one elbow. He looked down into Prowl's face and said, “What? I'm not getting dragged into anything – I'm coming with you.”

“You're the Guardian of the Sanctuary,” Prowl said. “Your duties are here.”

Drift pulled a face. “And what exactly are those duties? Sweeping the dojo, feeding the fish? There's nothing here to guard but dead metal.” He huffed and sank back down onto the berth. He wrapped his arms around Prowl's slighter waist, and pressed his frame up against Prowl's back as the ninja curled on his side. They fit snugly together, and Prowl felt himself overcome with a profound sense of calm, even in the face of everything that had happened. He sighed.

“We'll discuss it in the morning,” Prowl murmured. He closed his optics. High-grade combined with the after-buzz from his overload made his system pleasantly warm, and sleep came to him easily. Drift breathed in the scent of him, and followed soon after. There was nothing to discuss.


	10. The Pit

AK943. The prison-world also known as Akeron was a bleak sight in the _Odyssey_ 's viz-screen, a grey, hollowed-out rock lit by searchlights and fires. Optimus and his crew were met at one of a series of security cordons on the approach to the planet, and Optimus submitted to the string of questions, along with a ship-wide scan and search, before they were allowed to pass through in the shuttle and set it down at the designated docking pad. The _Odyssey_ remained at the security point in orbit as a "security measure", although Optimus wasn't sure exactly whose security the staff had in mind.

Optimus jumped out of the shuttle's hatch and his pedes landed on hard-packed, dark grey earth. Rush and Bumblebee followed him, both wary and vigilant. Optimus cast his optics over the scene. The sky was overcast with grey and black roiling clouds, thick with pollution. The ground was pitted and lifeless, the unrelenting rock broken only by the stark domes of the prison complex's few above-ground structures. He knew that most of the compound was underground; he had never visited the world before, but he had read up when he had been told that was where Starscream was being sent.

He hadn't lied to Starscream – he had believed it was Trypticon the seeker was bound for, Cybertron and a trial. But the crew of the transport that had arrived had been given different orders – Starscream was to be brought direct to Akeron and held until such time as a trial could be organised. As soon as he had read the communiqué Optimus had had his doubts about _that_  promise. Everybot knew who Starscream was. If Megatron's trial had proven anything it was that sometimes legal proceedings could be nothing but a formality, and punishment a foregone conclusion.

Even so, he had sent Starscream to this place. He may not have given the order, but he was still responsible. Cycling the world's acrid, polluted air into his intakes, he wondered just what kind of a fate he had consigned his one-time lover to.

They were met at the edge of the docking pad by a stocky mech carrying a plasma rifle, accompanied by three bigger guards, each of them armed as well. The stocky bot saw Optimus and Bumblebee's elite badges and offered a vague gesture that might have been intended to be a salute.

“Sorry for the hassle with security, Prime,” he said, after Optimus nodded in greeting. “I assume word reached the home-world about the break-out. Damn slagging mess if you ask me. Would never have happened on my watch.” Optimus extended his hand, and the mech clasped it. “Designation's Hardknock. I'm the new warden around here.”

“Good to meet you,” Optimus said. The file had said that the staff had undergone some severe cuts and reorganisations following the colossally embarrassing disaster that had been Megatron and Starscream's explosive escape from the complex.

“Thanks for letting us know you were coming,” Hardknock said. “Now, I'm going to have to ask you to hand over your weapons, just for the duration of the visit. Your mechs' too.”

Optimus bristled, as did Rush and Bumblebee. “I'm a Prime,” Optimus said, trying very hard to keep his vocals even and calm. “I have authorisation to be here. I'm here on Elite Guard business.”

Hardknock made a placating gesture. “All right, all right. I see your point. You two can keep 'em, but _she's_ not Elite. Gun please, femme.”

Rush gave him a deceptively sweet smile and handed over her blaster. Optimus hda been about to protest – Rush was as much an Autobot as any of them, but the femme had already handed over her gun and they were being ushered toward a set of large bulkhead doors in the side of one of the vast domes. Hardknock's guards flanked them, one on either side of the _Odyssey_ 's party and one behind, as they followed the warden. The doors swung open, and they followed Hardknock into darkness.

A sense of stifling claustrophobia grasped Optimus even before the blast doors closed behind them. It was like an invisible fog that rose from the catacombs beneath them, from the very floors and walls, turning his tank and making his wing joists twitch, hidden as his wings were. Suddenly he had an even greater sense of the nightmare he had sent Starscream to – he knew how much it had pained Starscream to be grounded even for a little while, while his wing healed; to be confined in such a place, in the darkness and tightness of underground, never able to stretch his wings, never even able to see the sky... Optimus's spark constricted in guilt.

“What can you tell me about the break-out?” Optimus asked as they walked, to take his mind off the way the atmosphere in the prison made his tank heave and his spinal strut shiver.

Hardknock strutted in the lead, but turned his head to answer, “Things were secure enough until they brought in that new prisoner, the Vosian. Starscream.” He clicked his glossa. “This place is home to most of the galaxy's most dangerous Decepticon war criminals, most of the Decepticon command, and _was_  home to the old warmongering son-of-a-glitch himself, Megatron. And you know what? There's never been an escape until _that one_ came and stirred up the status quo.” He gave a small wry laugh. “Though as it turns out, maybe the status quo needed some stirring up.”

Optimus frowned. They were following Hardknock through a long, straight corridor, deep underground now, and Optimus guessed they were crossing from one wing of the prison to another. “What do you mean?”

“Ah, you'll find that out soon enough. But first, you asked about the escape. Well, old Megsy was locked up in solitary, had been for the last thousand stellars. At first they put the Air Commander in Garellus, where he belonged. But like I said, he stirred things up, was a trouble-maker. So some bright spark thought they'd put him down in solitary too. Tsk. Big mistake. You know there are some bots who think the only reason the 'Cons didn't outright win the war was because of the in-fighting in their high command – meant they could never quite organise as fast as they needed to, never strike as ruthlessly as they should've. It's just too bad none of those bots were around to point out what might happen if the two highest-ranking Decepticon officers found themselves together and actually had the _motivation_  to work together for once.”

Optimus thought about it. Everybot knew Megatron and Starscream hated each other, and had done for millennia, but even the bitterest enemies might find a way to co-operate if the situation were dire enough. Optimus had seen them both on Pyrovar, meaning they had stayed together after their escape at least that far. Perhaps the ancient rivals had finally been reconciled, here, in this place.

The question that really nagged at him was, why in the name of the Allspark would anybot put those two in adjacent cells? At best, it was asking for trouble...

“Whose idea was it to put Megatron and Starscream together here?” he asked.

Hardknock gave him a look over his shoulder, and a complacent shrug. “The old warden,” he said. “Ringer. One of those top-level decisions the rest of us can only shake our heads over. Not that I was here. I'm a transfer from Trypticon, sent to clean up the mess,” he said, and then muttered under his breath, “and doing a bad job of it and all...”

Optimus ignored the final comment he was clearly not intended to hear, and followed Hardknock in silence for a few paces. Then he said, “Where are we going?” He had assumed Hardknock was taking them to his office to review files, but the mech smirked at him and said, “Well, a lot of the planet is off-limits right now, including Garellus Wing. After the break-out we had rioting, and a few other inmates managed to hijack ships and get off-world. Half the planet is still burning. A lot of the inmates have been transferred to privately-run prison ships until we can make the place secure again, and until then it's zero-tolerance on the few trouble-makers we have left. I thought you'd want to meet this one, though. Leave your bots here,” he said with a nod of his head. They had reached a security checkpoint at the end of the long corridor, and Optimus gave Bumblebee and Rush a look to say they could wait with the guard at the desk. The guard, like all those Optimus had seen since arriving, sported a dark paint job, and had one hand transformed into a kind of cudgel, in addition to the blasters at his hips and the rifle over his back. He seemed over-armed for a prison-guard, but then he supposed Akeron's halls had run with energon lately. In such a pit, perhaps such armaments were nothing more than sensible precautions.

Beyond the desk, set back into the dark wall, was a heavy door with a series of locks and keypads on it. Hardknock beckoned just Optimus onward, and lock by lock he opened the door.

“This is a specialist, high-security medical unit,” the warden explained. “We had to customise it special, but... well, you'll see.” He pushed, and the door opened. Two of his guards followed behind Optimus as the Prime followed Hardknock inside .

Optimus stepped over the threshold and into a darkly lit room lined with mismatched tech, monitors and computer terminals jumbled in with medical stations. On the far side of the chamber was a medical cot, the figure upon which was shrouded in shadow and bristling with wires attached to the hardware around it. Optimus followed Hardknock deeper into the room, though his every instinct was screaming at him to be wary.

“Meet the mech who used to _really_  run Akeron,” Hardknock said, and he gestured to the prone mech with his chin. Optimus frowned and stepped closer. The bot on the slab was tall and of slim, powerful build, with sharp claws and long limbs. His helm had been opened up to allow for direct hard-line connections to his neural net, but up close Optimus still recognised him. The glass of his face-plate was cracked, and the light of his optic flickered dimly, the rest of his head pried open, but Optimus still recognised the Decepticon Shockwave.

“I dont understand,” Optimus said.

Hardknock folded his arms and clicked his tongue. “The old warden had certain... arrangements with the inmates, most of which were organised with this slagger here. You can rest assured that kind of slag has come to an end under _my_  management. My policy is zero tolerance.”

“What happened to him?”

“Starscream happened to him. Common sense dictates this was the mech masterminding the escape, and he got almost killed in return. That's Decepticon gratitude for you.” Optimus eyed him sceptically. Something didn’t add up there. “Tried to get him to talk using more... conventional methods, but we couldn't get a word out of him. I need to know just how deep the corruption in this place runs, the extent of the deals made...”

“Why dont you just ask the old warden?”

Hardknock pulled a face. “Unfortunately he was killed when the rioting started. We found this one on his way to the pit and managed to hook him up here. Stubborn glitch still wont give us much – he's burying or deleting files almost as soon as we can decrypt them.” Hardknock shrugged. “Still, we have to try.”

“I suppose...” Optimus tore his optics away from the pitiful sight. “I actually came to ask if I could check some of the records about a transfer... the transfer ship that brought in Starscream, actually.” Hardknock's brows rose, and Optimus ploughed on, “I believe it was carrying another cargo, but I haven't been able to get hold of a manifesto.”

Hardknock frowned. “A lot of files were destroyed around the time the riots started too. Not sure if the warden did it himself or if they just got caught in the-” The warden cut off just as a loud siren started to blast. Hardknock swore. “Not again.”

One of the guards from outside entered and whispered something in the warden's audio. Hardknock sighed and tured back tto Optimus. “So sorry, Prime, but I have to attend to this. Ever since those 'Cons busted out this place has been chaos, fires and riots and escape attempts practically every orbital cycle. My guards here will have to escort you to a suite, I'm afraid the prison is going into lockdown. There's been another _incident_.”

“What? But-” Optimus tried to protest, but Hardknock was already leaving, and the Prime found himself being ushered hurriedly from the medical room by two of the black-painted guards, their firm hands on his elbows, practically frogmarching him from the chamber. They led him onto a tram, and two stops later marched him into a set of rooms, released him, and left him there. The doors sealed behind them, and Optimus dusted himself off, stunned and indignant.

“Wasn't expecting that,” Rush said wryly. Optimus turned. He hadn't realised that he had not seen his crewmates since entering Shockwave's ward. It seemed both Rush and Bumblebee had been subjected to the same treatment as their Prime, as they were now all three together effectively locked in.

Optimus cycled a breath and looked around. The rooms were well enough appointed – not a cell by any stretch of the imagination, more like a suite for visiting officials and the like, which he supposed he was. It was dark, just as it was in the whole of the complex, but pink energon lamps cast a soft glow over the clean, decently furnished receiving room. There were couches, a sizeable table, storage lockers for energon. Doors led off the main room, presumably to guest recharge rooms. A large viz-screen across one wall simulated a window, with a holographic image of a clear Cybertron skyline displayed in muted colours. Optimus passed a hand over his optics.

“What the slag is going on?” Bumblebee said irritably. “Are we prisoners now?”

“We're _guests_ ,” Rush said, running the tip of a finger over a decorative vase upon a sideboard.

Optimus put his hands on his hips. “Rush is right. It's inconvenient, but we're in here for our own safety. Warden Hardknock said there had been an... incident.” He tried to raise the warden on the comms but found them jammed. Inconvenient. He wouldn't be able to contact Rig and Trapper on the _Odyssey_ either.

As if reading his processor, Rush said, “Trapper'll get the ship away from here if he can get it away from that security point.”

“That's not Code procedure,” Bumblebee said with a raised brow and a half smirk.

“Trapper's an Autobot, but he loves that damn ship more than any of us. He'll be back to pick us up when the lockdown's lifted. Probably....”

Optimus paced a bit, and then came to stop in front of the mock-window with his hands clasped behind his back. “Whatever's going on, we'll find out soon enough. All we can do is wait-”

Just then his comm unit buzzed. It was an internal frequency, transmitting on seemingly the only channel still functioning within the prison. Optimus accepted the hail.

“Prime,” Hardknock said, his harried vocals sounding fuzzy and distant. “This might take a little time to sort out. Why dont you make youself comfortable? I'll pop in to check on you in the morning. Once again, I really do apologise for the inconvenience, but we've got a bit of a crisis escalating here. I can say you really picked a bad time to drop in. I'll let you know as soon as it's safe for you to be out and about again, and we can go over those records like you wanted. All right, I have to go. Hardknock out.”

Optimus drew breath to reply, but the line was already cut off. He looked to the others, and realised they hadn't heard the message. He relayed it to them, and Bumblebee huffed and swore, while Rush looked thoughtful.

“Just try to get some recharge. I'll talk to the warden in the morning, and we can get back on track,” Optimus said. Taking his own advice, he bid his companions goodnight and investigated one of the rooms leading off the sitting room. Just as expected, it was a berthroom, simply equipped with a low bed and a few sparse storage closets. It was a decent standard, but somehow that seemed to only make it seem bleaker. The bed was hard, and the chamber was dark, without even a false window. Optimus turned out the lights and lay on his front, spark aching as he imagined Starscream trapped on this Primus-forsaken world.

Starscream had deserved a sentence, sure enough. But alone in the darkness, Optimus found himself drifting back into the memories of their brief time together. He never had expected to call the Decepticon Air Commander a lover, but that was what they had been. Primus damn it all, he had even grown to _care_ for the son-of-a-glitch. He sighed heavily, pressed his optics closed, and prayed for sleep to come. His prayer wasn't answered until several cold and lonely hours later.


	11. Aura

The Sanctuary garden was a beautiful backdrop to the battle. Two lithe ninjabots – one light and one dark – darted back and forth, advancing, retreating, blades clashing and sparking as they went at one another. Their movements sent little gusts of wind setting the crystals on the trees a-chiming and the waters of the ornamental pond rippling.

Drift's fans were whirring, and condensation made his gleaming white and red armour glisten. He was working hard, and it was taking every ounce of processing power for him to keep up with Prowl's attacks and still find time to jab an offense of his own now and again whenever he thought he saw an opening. Prowl, on the other hand, fought with almost surgical finesse, and hardly seemed to be working at all. His face was disconcertingly expressionless, his blue optics glinting as enigmatically as if he had been wearing a visor. His focus was truly frightening, and while Drift's grace of motion was beautiful, Prowl's movements were both graceful and brutally economical.

After several more kliks of back-and-forth, Drift hesitated for a nanosecond, and Prowl pushed the advantage it gave him. Moving as if on pure base processing, Prowl overbalanced Drift with a high strike, and then kicked to take his feet from under him. Drift stumbled and the backs of his heels caught the edge of the raised lip that ran around the ornamental pond. He fell, arms flailing for a crucial, failed moment, and then he landed aft-first into the pond, sending up a great splash. Prowl swooped in at once, stopping himself only at the very last moment. Drift tilted his head back and held himself deathly still, the intakes stalled in his vents. He felt the heat of the edge of Prowl's energy saber against his exposed throat.

Very slowly, he raised his hands, his short swords dropped into the pond for the small aquabots to flit around. After a moment, Drift's surrender seemed to register to Prowl, and the dark ninja's mask of frosty, intense focus finally melted to reveal the bot Drift had come to know in the few short cycles they had spent together. Drift felt immense relief when Prowl sheathed his sabre and extended a hand to him instead. Drift took it, and then grinned. Instead of allowing Prowl to help him out of the pond, he clasped Prowl's hand and jerked the other ninjabot forward. Prowl yelped, and then before he knew it both bots were tumbling in a splashing heap in the pond's once-peaceful waters.

Prowl laughed and gave Drift a shove. He rose to his feet and shook off some of the water from his hands. Drift stayed where he was, grinning and admiring the view of the sleek black and gold mech glistening with solvent droplets.

“Do I need to ask what that was in aid of?” Prowl said wryly.

“All life is a lesson, Prowl,” Drift said. He got up as well, and retrieved his swords. “That's what Dai Atlas is always telling me. That and I need discipline.”

“You do need discipline,” Prowl said with a smile. He extended his blade again and fell into a stance as graceful as water. “Let's go again.”

Drift shook off his amusement. Any moment that look would be back in Prowl's optics, and it would be all Drift could do to stay on his toes enough to not get slagged. Oh, he didn't think Prowl was deliberately out to kill him. As far as he could tell, the mech liked him. But ever since his lowlife partner Lockdown cut and ran the black and gold ninjabot had been burning with a simmering murderous anger that only sparring seemed to help him relieve. It was just bad luck that all that energy got pored into their matches, as if Prowl were fighting Lockdown in Drift's place. Then again, Drift had had to work harder in these matches than he ever had, even sparring with Dai Atlas didn't compare to the utterly single-minded, almost preternatural fluency Prowl exhibited; when Prowl fought, it was as though he had been sparked for that very purpose. He was a deadly shadow, fast and utterly, utterly relentless. It had forced Drift to step up his game, and he was sure he had improved by several degrees in just the last few days.

It was the end of the cycle by the time Prowl seemed to tire. Drift was exhausted, but he tried hard not to let it show. Prowl was almost unstoppable, and on top of that he was a fragging war hero. Drift was already in enough disgrace purely by dint of being a former Decepticon, he didn't need to embarrass himself still further by showing weakness or complaining.

Just as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he caught Prowl's optics and cursed himself for it. Prowl wouldn't judge him that way. Of course he wouldn't. Prowl smiled at him, his blue optics sparkling. The mech knew who he was and what he had been, and still chose to share a berth with him. Pit, he had taken _Lockdown_ for a lover. The mech clearly had a forgiving spark, for all his unforgiving ruthlessness on the battlefield.

They hit the small, crude shower around the back of Drift's cottage by way of a washrack. Prowl, gentle now, his killing grace gone and replaced by conscientious care, helped to wash Drift's back and shoulders, and Drift did the same for him. Head spinning, Drift backed Prowl up against the wall of the cottage as the scented water cascaded down around them and pressed his frame against Prowl's. To his surprise, upon that contact Prowl's EM field exploded outward in an invisible flare of pure heat. As Prowl pulled him down into a kiss, he realised drunkenly that Prowl must have been keeping his field reined in tight against his body so as to hide his state from his companion.

Prowl's mouth opened beneath Drift's lips, and Drift surged forward, pressing Prowl closer against the wall and plunging his glossa deep into the other ninjabot's mouth. His hands came to rest on Prowl's narrow waist, and Prowl in turn wrapped his arms around Drift's neck.

Drift took him there under the water, pressed against the wall, both of them drunk with heat, Drift riding the wake of Prowl's battle-high and getting lost in the maelstrom of his spark's desire.

Afterward they went inside and shared a cube of coolant. Both had sated their desire, and Prowl had finally burned off the restless energy that ate at him most days, leaving him relaxed and amiable. Their drink was companionable, and afterwards they fell onto Drift's berth and into blissfully sweet recharge.

Aside from Prowl's anger at the absent bounty-hunter, and the restlessness and anxious tension that haunted him, Drift could say that the past few days had been almost perfect. Prowl didn't care he had once worn a brand instead of a red crest, didn't look at him with scorn or wariness. They meditated and sparred and worked at cleaning up the long-neglected wings of the sanctuary. Around them, beyond the trees, life in the busiest city on Cybertron continued on, but within their protected bubble of tranquillity none of that might as well have existed.

Sooner or later, Drift knew, the bubble had to break.

 

* * *

 

It broke the very next cycle.

A bright Cybertron dawn broke over the silver wood and found Drift sitting in lotus pose on the top of the steps of the dojo's front entrance. Prowl was on the ground before the stairs running through some _katas_. Drift finished his meditation cycle and onlined his optics, and spent several kliks just watching Prowl move through his own meditative routine. The black mech hummed softly as he moved, fluid as water, from each pose to the next.

Drift let his optics un-focus, and continued to watch Prowl. He found himself frowning as he noted the barely visible shadow that lay around the mech's frame like a heat shimmer rising from his armour, an almost intangible, radiating darkness.

Eventually Prowl finished his exercises and walked over to the steps to join Drift. He tilted his head at the look in Drift's optics, and sat down beside him. Drift turned so they could sit facing one another, their poses mirrored.

“Something wrong?” Prowl asked, his tone mild.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Drift answered. When he wasn't looking for it, the shadow around Prowl was hardly visible, and he doubted any other mech could see or sense it at all... He drew a breath. “I never mentioned I can sense auras, did I?”

Prowl's optic ridge lifted. “You didn't.”

“Not for everybot, and not all the time. Dai Atlas says it's a load of hokum, so I havent told anybot else. But I thought you should know...” He frowned and bit his lip. “I've never seen a bot with a colour like yours.”

He half expected Prowl to laugh at him, or simply sneer in scorn, but instead Prowl adjusted his posture, making himself more comfortable within his pose, and said, “Tell me?”

Drift tilted his head. “Well, when my mind is at peace and I just sort of... I dont know. I have to be in the right kind of place. But I can see colours around bots, kind of like an EM field but a reflection of their spark, not just their surface emotions. At least that's how I've been thinking of it. I guess i've always had the ability, but it's only since Dai Atlas started training my processor that it became easier. I never really found a use for it though...”

“And there's something... wrong? With mine?” Prowl prompted.

Drift bit his lip, debating on whether to go on. He didnt want Prowl to think he had a poisoned spark or something, spark no! But the steadily intent look in Prowl's unguarded optics was convincing enough to coax Drift into answering truthfully.

“I can't see any colour to your aura,” Drift said. “It's almost as if you're not there at all. But what I can see is a... a darkness. Like a shadow, just hovering around you. I've never seen anything like it.” It frightened him, now that he thought about it – it was wrong somehow. But he bit his glossa on that, having already said more than enough.

Prowl frowned in thought as he considered it. “Perhaps it's because-” Then he stopped himself. Drift itched to prompt him, cajole him into divulging what he stopped himself from saying, but his processor raced to fill in the blanks. Everybot knew Prowl had died. He had fallen in the Battle of Earth, the selfsame battle in which Optimus Prime had defeated the infamous warlord, and Drift's former leader, and brought an end to the war that had spanned even Cybertronian generations. Drift also knew that Prowl was sitting across from him right now, of course. Drift saw the look on Prowl's face, the niggling worry and barely concealed dread. Prowl wondered if when he had died and come back from the Well, or the Pit, or wherever his soul had gone, he had come back... wrong. Warped somehow, maybe. Tainted, or sparkless. “It doesn't matter,” Prowl said, and even though Drift knew he didn't mean it that way, his spark shrank a little at what it perceived as dismissal of his abilities.

Prowl rose to his feet, his head tilted and a new tension in his lines. "Somebot's coming," he said, and swiftly offered Drift a hand. Drift took it and rose. 

Moments later there was a rustling in the silvery trees around the courtyard, and his sensors suddenly registered several signals nearby. Prowl had already drawn away and activated his sabre, had shifted into battle-mode the instant he sensed others approaching, and Drift knew from a glance he was already riding the killing edge that made him so deadly even in a friendly spar. Drift cast his optics and sensors around, and the latter pinged back with a familiar signal. Panic rising in his lines, he drew his swords. The first of the signals resolved into a mech advancing swiftly from the trees, and Drift threw himself between him and Prowl just as the black ninjabot's optics glittered and he sprang to attack.

Drift threw himself in between Prowl and the newcomer, and caught Prowl's blade between his two short swords, just before the searing hot energy weapon parted Drift's head from his body. Prowl forced himself to pull back only when he met Drift's optics, realisation of what had occurred cooling his battle-heat just enough for him to step away and sink into a ready crouch.

Drift turned to the newcomer and looked straight into the optics of one of the mechs he had grown to look up to so much in the time since he had come under Dai Atlas's tutelage. Jazz held himself still, not even going for his weapons. He was flanked by two Elite officers, and a small cadre of Autotroopers. His optics slid past Drift and fixed on Prowl and then widened a fraction, his face going slack with shock.

“....Prowl?”

Behind Drift, Prowl was still and silent for a long moment. Then Drift felt the tension in the courtyard shift, and Prowl's EM field lost some of its reactionary alarm, cooled down, and Drift knew the dark ninjabot had eased away from the killing edge and reason had taken charge of his processor once more.

“Jazz.”

It was hard to gauge the tone in Prowl's vocals. Drift stepped aside and turned so he could keep both ninjabots in his field of vision. Slowly, Prowl straightened, and put away his blade. He held Jazz's gaze and seemed to be trying hard to keep his expression neutral.

Jazz moved as if to take a step forward, but he stopped himself. He shifted his attention, with difficulty, back to Drift. “I-I...” He cleared his throat, and then his vocals recovered some of their usual smoothness. “I have a warrant for your arrest. I mean, I'm here to take you into custody, under suspicion of murder.”

And that was when the bubble burst. Drift felt the ground go out from under him, and it was only Prowl's quick action that prevented him from going down like a sack of rocks. Leaning against the other ninja's shoulders, he croaked, “What?”

“Dai Atlas was found murdered in his quarters at the Metroplex this morning,” Jazz said, but as far as Drift was concerned he might have been hearing him underwater. Everything felt blurred and distorted, there was something wrong with his perception. The whole world was spinning, and the only anchor was the body pressed against him, the arms around him, the hovering darkness threatening to envelop him.

“Jazz, you have the wrong bot,” Prowl was saying. “Drift has been here the whole time. He couldn't have been to the Metroplex-”

“Drift, huh? Well, I got a file here says his name's Deadlock.” Drift flinched as though he had been hit. “Seems no-bot's who they say they are these cycles.” He gestured to the Autotroopers. “Cuff that...thing too.”

“What?” Prowl protested. Drift found himself standing alone and swaying as the Elite thugs wrenched his arms behind his back and put a pair of stasis cuffs around his wrists. He looked up groggily just in time to see the Autotroopers trying to wrestle Prowl into a similar position, but the black ninja was protesting. Drift saw the darkness around Prowl flicker and darken. Those fools, couldn't they see? Couldn't they sense that, that sense of impending danger, the ozone scent of an oncoming storm? But then he realised that no, they couldn't. Only Drift had even the slightest inkling of the dark fire the fragless goons were tangling with.

It happened almost too suddenly and swiftly for Drift to even register the movements. Prowl moved in a shadowy blur, and then the Autotroopers trying to cuff him were on the ground – several feet away from Prowl.

Prowl held the pair of cuffs in one hand and faced Jazz and the two Elite officers. “Release him,” he said, nodding toward Drift without breaking optic contact with Jazz. He held his body in a tense, ready stance, one hand held out in front of him as if to halt whatever attack might come. “Jazz, why are you doing this? You know me-”

“No, I dont,” Jazz said. “I know who you want me to think you are, and I recognise that frame. But that bot died.”

“I can explain-”

“And on top o' that, your psychic frequency is all wrong, your energy field is too different. There's something wrong about it. Even if that is Prowl's frame, the thing inside it sure ain't him.”

Prowl stood still, shocked into inaction by Jazz's harmful words, as the Elite officers closed in with fresh sets of cuffs. Drift watched, his spark breaking, as they took the war hero and Yoketron's final student into custody.

Prowl was docile and silent as they were loaded into an Elite transport and transferred across town to the Fortress. When they got there, they were separated. Drift looked to Prowl, hoping for a last minute heroic escape plan, but found Prowl's icy blue optics flat and closed off.

Of course, he thought, Prowl had been “away” for so long, he probably wouldn't realise what they were in for. Especially what he, Drift, was in for. He didn't know what happened to Decepticons, former Decepticons, or anybot who had ever said a gentle word about the Decepticon cause in this, the new, post-war Cybertron. He didn't know about the labour pits, about the crowded stink of Trypticon, or the fact that any bot who had ever worn a brand was rarely even gifted the formality of a trial.

Drift sat in his clean white holding cell, his fists clenched on his knees, his wrists cuffed and linked by an energon-powered chain. He bit at his lower lip, staring at the opposite wall, and drove himself sick with worry and fear. He had lived on Cybertron under Dai Atlas's protection. He had taken him in, provided him with a new designation, seen to his upgrades and reformat. He had practically _created_ Drift, from the ashes of Deadlock. He had also shielded him from the Elite Guard and Council both, informing them he was his newest protege, a young Autobot from the rim of the Commonwealth come to him for training and to help restore the dojo. They had known nothing of who he had been – not even the rest of the Cyberninja corps had any inkling of who he used to be.

Which begged the question – how had Jazz known his old name?

Who had told?

It barely mattered now, but still the question pulled at him, and the sense of betrayal eroding his spark was all too real. True enough, he had only just begun to earn the ninjas' trust, and each of his encounters with them had been heavily chaperoned by Atlas himself. But he had thought he got on well enough with Springer, Devcon... Pit, even Jazz. What would any of them have to gain in turning him in as a former Decepticon?

He sighed. There would be no way to find out. Not now. The clock was ticking, time chipping away, until he was placed on a transport to Trypticon, or worse, off-world to one of the outsourced prison worlds. And then he would be lucky if he ever saw Cybertron again.


	12. Rubicon I

Starscream paced along a ridge above part of the vast Decepticon camp on Arelline. Spread out across what had once been peaceful energon fields were now hundreds of warriors, each of them pledged and branded to the Decepticon cause, all of them owing fealty to Megatron and himself. Their numbers were not vast, but the Decepticons' tendency toward superior size and power meant they were still a formidable force, each of the Decepticon war-builds worth five to ten Autobots in a fair fight – and Decepticons never fought fair if they could avoid it.

Grounders were drilling mêlée combat forms in a lethal rabble of edged and blunt weapons. The ex-Autobots from Torkulon preferred axes, whips, and chains – weapons they had been able to use in the battle that liberated them – but had begun their training with firearms as well. Vice versa, those who had always worn the brands had been grateful to return to their blasters and cannons, but sword drills were still _de rigueur_ just in case.

Megatron was among them. Starscream paused and watched him for a while. He had Cyclonus for a drilling partner, and together they moved through the forms slowly enough for even the clumsiest of the former miners to follow. Many of them had been civilians before “repurposing” and had never swung a weapon in their lives before throwing off the Quintessons' shackles. After a while Megatron and Cyclonus left off their demonstration, and instead circulated around the field, giving instructions and examples of this or that move. Megatron moved like a leader, spoke firmly even though the tone he took with the greener recruits was gentler than Cyclonus's gruff manner. He was courteous but never mollycoddled any bot, and always demanded the best. He was the picture of what a leader should be.

Starscream wondered how long he could keep the act up this time.

At the edge of the fields, beyond a line of woodland, the ground rolled away and down into a deep valley. The land here hadn't been cultivated and had been left wild and grassy. The swells of the surrounding hills and cliffs offered perfect taking-off points for aerials.

At the edge of one of the cliffs Starscream cast his optics upward. In the open green sky above the valley flitted aerial builds of all kinds. Starscream observed critically as units of jets and rotaries engaged each other in mock battle, and vice versa. The air was filled with the roar of high-performance jet engines and the thumping beat of rotors.

Directing one side of the combat was an angular, dark jet with coiling glyphs along his wings which caught the sunlight each time he swooped in low. Starseam had asked Shadow to help get the aerial branch of their little army up to scratch, and since the majority of Decepticons were flight-capable war-builds, he could use the extra help. It had been Shadow's idea to take it further and develop a squad of elite fliers to be Starscream's personal guard. It was these whom Shadow had taken it upon himself to personally train – when he wasn't teaching Starscream the finer points of traditional Vosian warfare and aerobatics, that is.

Blitzwing led the opposing side. His style was quite different to the Vosian-led technique, martial and direct in comparison to the Wing Guard's looping, deadly dance. Blitzwing may have a few odd glitches, but he was still a perfectly capable Decepticon officer. Starscream watched as martial Decepticon manoeuvres met the archaic, flowing war-dances of the Vosian-trained Wing Guard. Wings glinted like finely honed blades in the bright Arelline sun as squadrons of aerials moved with a fluidity and deadly grace unseen in Cybertronian skies for aeons. Each jet flew in concert and complement to his or her squad-mates, at the skilful urging of the appointed wingmasters, each individual moving as part of a whole, one vast aerial predator.

Starscream launched himself from the cliffside, transformed, and rose up to join in. A unit of Wing Guard jets immediately fell in place behind his wings, and Shadow ceded command of the unit to Starscream at once. Starscream recalled everything Shadow had been trying to train him. He didn't fly like the old Vosian; he had spent millions of years as a Decepticon warrior, spent aeons flying and fighting in his own way. However, the movements and manoeuvres Shadow had taught him felt natural to him, seemed to spark something deep in his processor, and he took to them well; the result was a melding of styles that was entirely new, the same innovative flair which the elite Decepticon aerials adopted to devastating effect.

The Wing Guard tore through Blitzwing's troops, despite Blitzwing's superior numbers. Wherever the Decepticons attacked, Starscream's jets simply weren't there. It was a close battle, but the ultimate victory was unquestionable. Afterwards, Starscream alighted atop a high hill and watched the swarm of aerials disperse. He couldn't help but wonder if Shadow was teaching the Decepticon fliers Vosian technique in anticipation of the arrival of a third company, a pack of fliers for whom such tactics was coded as deep as a generational memory. Such a company would swell the ranks of the Wing Guard significantly, creating an elite force which could threaten even the bulk of Megatron's troops. Starscream filed the notion away, for later consideration.

Pleased, he made his way back into the camp. The elite aerials had gelled remarkably well, and were making good progress. They would be ready for the assault on Cybertron. It was a shame the same couldn't be said for the rest of the army. Instead of coming together as a cohesive unit, tensions were instead rising, and a general atmosphere of discontent and low morale had fallen like a pall over the camp. Starscream thought it stemmed from the top – the officers' differences were becoming widely known, as was the fact that each command council resulted in indecision and squabbling. Starscream never thought he would find himself trying to be the voice of peace and reason in the Decepticon army, but the soldiers' and officers' seeming inability to work together was becoming increasingly more irritating. The disparate groups which made up the ragtag army were chafing against one another, and the roughly patched joins that kept those parts together were slowly starting to erode. The ex-Autobot recruits from Torkulon were wary and distrustful around the cut-and-dried 'Cons, the old guard was disdainful of those with fresh brands; Cyclonus's group from Monacus was half awed and half resentful of Strika's large force, and Strika's mechs – and likely the General herself – sowed the seeds of dissent, criticising Starscream's legitimacy as a leader and Megatron's capability, whispering it about that Strika might be a more suitable choice as new Decepticon lord. Still more divisions had begun to appear. Cooped up on this backwater, nowhere planet and going stir-crazy waiting for their hesitant leader to give the word to charge, it was only inevitable they turn against one another. Rigidly disciplined soldiers they may once have been, but Decepticons had always been inclined to rebellion and dissent – it was practically in their programming – and the only way to keep them working harmoniously toward a common goal was to give them strong and unshakeable leadership. A mixture of fear, awe, and respect was required, and before his defeat on Earth Megatron had always, Starscream grudgingly admitted, held that.

Now the leadership was splintered, and the army split into factions. Even amongst those who remained loyal to Megatron, there were those who had answered solely to Strika for a thousand years, and some who looked first to Cyclonus for authority. Then there were the bots for whom Tappet had become their leader. On top of all of that, Megatron was still faltering. He had drawn back; oh, he still went through the motions, but it was as if he was hollow inside. The fire that had once burned bright within him and drawn others to its light simply wasn't there – or else, something was smothering it. Whether they realised it or not, the others noticed his lack of conviction. Morale was at a low, and the dispirited soldiers were even more prone to in-fighting as a result. Moreover, the gossip Starscream had gathered via Vault's rapport with the common bots and his growing network of “friends” suggested belief in the possibility of victory was evaporating as well. There was talk of the hunts of a thousand years ago, when Decepticons were rounded up like cattle and stuffed into Trypticon, to places like Akeron, chipped and enslaved like the miners from Torkulon. There were murmurs of another defeat on the horizon, even greater than the last. There were whispers that there was no hope at all.

Once upon a time, the army losing faith in Megatron would have been within Starscream's wildest dreams. Once upon a time he would have taken advantage of the situation and made a grab for Megatron's crown for himself; he would have declared himself the superior mech and rightful leader, cast Megatron down as unfit, and tried to force the Decepticons to accept his authority. And once upon a time, he would have been a fool. He would have lost everything. Maybe some of them would have followed him, out of fear or apathy perhaps, but others would reject him. Still others would come forward to claim the throne as theirs instead. Strika in particular had been giving him dark looks as though he weren't fit to walk on the same ground that her pedes touched.

He had nursed this particular dream for millions of years, but now it was actually happening it was... inconvenient. It felt more like a trap closing around him, whilst the ground simultaneously crumbled beneath his feet. His position was tenuous – he really only had Shadow and Vault to back him, and both were outsiders – and he was utterly reliant upon Megatron's goodwill. If Megatron's judgement was seen as poor, then Starscream would be ousted as soon as he could think it, and, immortal or not, he didn't relish the thought of facing and angry mob of demoralised Decepticons. For all he knew, maybe they blamed him for Megatron's failure...

No, it simply would not do. Starscream had done too much and come too far to let it all slip through his talons now.

Never one to sit idly by and let things run their course, Starscream spent some time encouraging Vault's tales of his deeds, cultivated the rumours of his immortality and his fabled return from the Pit itself. And, when at last he sensed the fractures were beginning to split too far apart, just as things moved toward breaking point, he went looking for Megatron.

He knew just where to find him. This time of day, he was in the main field overseeing weapons drills. Starscream found him going through forms with his dual blades. He watched for a while. Megatron's form was spotless, but his movements had the robotic look of being automatic, of lacking spark... As Starscream watched, the old mech lowered his blades and stood looking down at them, although his gaze was faraway. His intakes were hard, but he had the look of a bot who had lost the thread of what he was thinking or doing. His mind was elsewhere.

Starscream stepped into the circle. “Megatron.” Megatron's head came up, and his optics found Starscream. He frowned in confusion, but the expression quickly morphed into put-upon irritation. Starscream gestured to a weapons stand. Some were clumsy things, not good for anything but practice, but it seemed Cyclonus had left his blades there. Starscream's optics flickered, and in a second he found the mech hovering nearby, clearly wanting to approach and retrieve his weapons but unwilling to attract his master's attention by interrupting. Starscream could have laughed. Maybe one day sparks would have flown in such a situation, once it would have been unwise to be a bystander in an encounter between the warlord and his wing commander lest you get caught in the crossfire, but those days had been gone for a while. Starscream planned to bring them back.

He grasped one of the bleedback blades by the hilt and pulled it from the stand. He levelled the point at Megatron. In the corner of his view he saw Cyclonus bristle with outrage and despair. Starscream ignored him. This was for the greater good.

“Don't you want somebot to spar with?” Starscream said with a smile. There was just enough of teasing in his voice, just enough of a taunt, to pique Megatron's ego. The old mech rolled his shoulders and moved his twin swords in an easy circle, his wrists flexing, as he sized Starscream up. Starscream knew what Megatron was thinking. Starscream had never excelled with bladed weapons or melee weapons of any sort. Starscream's strength was in the air, and as such he always preferred his cannons and bombs to getting up close and personal with anybot trying to kill him. However, he wasn't untrained, and he definitely knew the pointy end from the other. In recent cycles he had grown more used to the personal approach, having killed Driver – or whatever had been left of poor Driver – with his bare claws. Megatron may have been a master with his blades at one time, but he had spent a thousand years in inaction letting his skills atrophy; he was out of practice and demoralised. Starscream knew he would be more than enough of a match for him.

After a moment, Megatron bit. His optics flickered, and he said, “If you're really that desperate to be humiliated in front of the entire Decepticon army, it would be my pleasure.” It wasn't strictly true. The bots around them were busy, only a bare few had even turned their heads. That would change. Megatron's words were a challenge, but to Starscream even they rang hollow. He was going through the motions still, but for whose benefit?

Starscream grabbed Cyclonus's other blade. He and Megatron circled each other slowly. Starscream held the swords low and loosely, appearing to all the world as if his arrogance was all talk and this was just another of silly old Starscream's foolish attempts at proving himself, as if he had nothing to back up his big mouth. After a few moments, Starscream realised Megatron wasn't going to strike first. Perhaps he was waiting for Starscream's trick. Their last conversation hadn't been friendly, after all. Maybe the dark, hollow look behind Megatron's optics was the certainty that this was only the latest of Starscream's half-baked schemes to steal power. Starscream almost tutted. Surely Megatron knew him better than that by now. Once Starscream decided to do something he pushed at it doggedly and let nothing stop him. He had decided to lead the Decepticons to Cybertron, and if he had to drag Megatron back to his throne kicking and screaming then by Unicron he would do it.

He had been honest when he told Megatron he needed him. Megatron was the only bot who could pull their fracturing army back from the brink of disaster, the only mech who had the power and charisma - the inner fire that set him apart from others - needed to accomplish the impossible task ahead of them. Starscream had seen that back on Akeron. It was why he had pulled the old mech out of that Pit in the first place, and why had continued to bully, needle, and cajole the mech onward, _forcing_ him to reclaim the reins of power that were rightfully his. In another life it would have galled Starscream too badly to allow him to do what was required, but time, death, and necessity had changed him. Megatron was essential to his success; he saw now that the way back to Cybertron lay in the both of them working together. There was no other way.

Starscream made an experimental jab. Megatron turned it aside as though Starscream were a cyberkitten swatting at him. It did the job, though. Pulled out of inaction, Megatron made a passable attack, and Starscream met him blow for blow. They sparred like this for a while, steady and relaxed. Starscream put on a face of nonchalance, but the truth was that Megatron, even when he was barely trying, was the better swordsmech, and Starscream was having to work without looking like he tried at all.

Starscream turned aside a blow that made their blades ring and his arm ache. He rolled his shoulder and resisted the urge to massage the aching joint. Instead he put on a careless smirk and poured disdain into his vocals, and said, “You really are out of practice, old mech. Only a thousand years in there and you've already rusted up. I could beat you in my recharge cycle.”

“Tch. Is that the best you can do?” Megatron said. He swung again, and Starscream had to concentrate to keep up with a sudden flurry of attacks. “A thousand years rusted more than my joints. It seems it has affected your wit, as well.” There was a hint of a smirk on Megatron's face as Starscream threw himself back to avoid the tip of a swinging blade, having failed to block effectively. “Not that it was particularly sharp in the first place.”

“Speak for yourself you old fool.” Starscream's attention focused on Megatron, on the motion of his blades and on matching attack for attack. Soon he recovered himself enough to push Megatron back. He threw his will behind the blades, and all of a sudden, for a moment, he had Megatron on the back foot. He snarled and pressed him. As he fought, the familiarity of tossing barbs back and forth, of duelling with words as well as swords, came ever more naturally. Slowly, gradually, their mock battle became something else.

Megatron pressed Starscream backward, and Starscream pushed him back. They circled one another, treading the soft grass and churning the mud of the Arelline field beneath their pedes. One by one, bots paused in their tasks and glanced around to watch, and kept watching. Starscream's frame grew hot, and he expected to grow weary as Megatron seemed determined to exhaust him. Without his Allspark shard, he should have been easy to tire as he was stripped of his inexhaustible energy source. But something else drove him now. He was determined. He was unshakeable in that determination, although the longer they fought – how long was it? a few moments, or a few hours? - the harder it became to avoid Megatron's blades. Starscream bared his fangs and took an opening when he saw it. Megatron saved himself by only a moment, but the point had been reached. They were no longer simply sparring.

Starscream's insults became more barbed, just as his attacks sheared closer and closer each time. Combined with the fact that he seemed indefatigable, it piqued Megatron's indignation and frustration, and spurred him on in turn.

Soon they were fighting for all they had. Starscream lost one of the blades when a blow from Megatron sent it spinning from his hand. Starscream gave it up for lost, and gave up trying to fight like a swordsmech. He engaged his thrusters and hovered, dodged and danced around Megatron's frame evasively and darted strikes when he could. He moved in circles, fluidly, like a Vosian war-dance up close. He found himself smiling as everything he had learned and absorbed in his flying sessions, everything Shadow had taught him and he had adapted to suit his own style, came easily to his fingertips and leant him an edge that made Megatron snarl with rage.

“So determined to stab me in the back, even now?” Megatron shouted. “Didn't we move beyond that?”

“Beyond it indeed,” Starscream snarled. “I should have left you in that Pit to rust away like the scrap metal you are.”

Megatron charged at him and Starscream whirled to the side to avoid the slicing blades. One clipped his arm and cut it down to the strut. Megatron, stunned, brought himself up short. Starscream's energon dripped from his sword. Starscream glanced at the wound as his arm hung by his side. Then his lips curled back in a grimace, showing his sharp fangs, and with an unholy snarl he launched himself at the old mech.

Four million years of resentment and bitter antipathy met a thousand years of shattered dreams and betrayal, and the two mechs crashed into each other in a shower of sparks and energon. The spectacle drew quite an audience, although the wiser mechs kept a safe distance from the catastrophe that was Megatron and Starscream finally, earnestly, trying to kill each other.

Megatron caught Starscream with what felt like a hundred nicks and cuts, and energon seeped slowly from his many wounds. He landed a few of his own, and felt satisfaction seeing Megatron's armour scored here and there, new cuts criss-crossed on top of thousand-year-old damage. Starscream yelled and narrowly missed a blast from Megatron's cannon that left a crater in the ground, then screamed and went for the warlord once again.

Starscream fought for a long time after he should have fallen. He saw the disbelief in Megatron's optics, and then he saw it morph into fear. Starscream wasn't the mech he used to be. He wasn't the cringing coward Megatron had known in their days before Earth, but neither was he the green and youthfully enthusiastic scout he had been when they first met. Nor was he the vengeful, spiteful, and petty schemer he had been on Earth, either. Something fundamental had changed inside him, and now, finally, Megatron was truly beginning to realise. Starscream had the same iron determination and strength of will he'd always had, but there was something different about him now. His death had changed him, or else it had been fighting to survive on a barren scrapheap, outwitting and outfighting his way to freedom again and again, all the way to making a throne for himself in Darkmount. Megatron had never seen him like this. Everything that Starscream had been before was raw material, now was morphed into the finished item, the raw metals hardened into an unbreakable alloy.

The energy he fought with wasn't natural. Even a master warrior should have fallen when exhaustion took him over. Starscream fought through the exhaustion, somehow made it a part of his strength. Suddenly Megatron was no longer so sure of victory.

Starscream was closing on him now and fighting with a savagery no Decepticon had ever possessed. This was something older and purer, something that spoke of the air warriors of ancient Vos, or even the wild tribesmechs of the time before. Starscream fought like a force of nature, like the Vosian storms themselves. Megatron's spark shrank inside its chamber, and his footing faltered.

Starscream was going to kill him.

Megatron's mind was suddenly seized by fear, followed by a feeling of great sadness, of regret for what might have been. He had grown used to the idea of ruling Cybertron with Starscream at his side, as hopeless a goal as it had seemed. A dream of the future had taken root in his mind, and he had grown pitiably attached to the notion. A dream was all it would ever be now. He knew that as surely as he saw his own death coming.

When the moment came, Megatron experienced it in slow motion. The sun was behind Starscream and lent his figure an unnatural brightness, as if the light of the Allspark itself were haloed around him. His blade was upraised and arcing toward Megatron's spark. Megatron knew he couldn't block in time. Starscream had thrown him off balance with his last flurry of attacks, darting and spinning around him like a winged devil, the flames of his thrusters filling the air with a choking burning scent. Megatron brought his blades up, but he was just a fraction of a second behind what he needed to be.

He blocked, just barely, but the impact combined with his impaired balance sent him to the ground. He stumbled and fell heavily, and one of his swords spun away to lie upon the grass, just out of reach. Starscream batted the other away as easily as if he were swatting a stick from a protoform's hand. Starscream's blade caught the light and for an eternal moment seemed to blaze, making him look like a righteous warrior about to strike Megatron down. Megatron froze, the image of Starscream bearing down on him blurring with that of Optimus Prime standing over him with the Magnus Hammer at the scene of Megatron's greatest defeat. That defeat had been of his own making, and in the crucial moment his spark had given up the fight and so had he. This one was all Starscream's.

At least if he was going to die, at last, after everything, it would be at Starscream's hand. It would be at the hand of someone worthy.

Starscream _was_ worthy.

Megatron closed his optics as suddenly time sped up, and Starscream's blade came down, gleaming clean, pure black. And then it stopped again. Ages passed in the space of time it took Megatron's spark to pulse, to revive from its frozen state.

Another age passed, and then he opened his optics.

Starscream stood over him with the point of his blade poised at Megatron's throat. He was frozen, illuminated like a terrible, beautiful statue. The moment stretched on, the two of them suspended in a silence that spanned the camp, the whole planet. Then Starscream smiled.

It wasn't the sort of smile a crowing victor gave his defeated foe. There wasn't a drop of that kind of arrogance. Starscream turned slightly and thrust the point of his sword down into the soft earth. Then he extended his sword hand to Megatron and leant down.

“Not a bad match,” Starscream said, though it took Megatron a moment to process the sounds into words that made sense. His mind was racing to catch up with what had just occurred. He had seen his death descending upon him, and had all but made his peace with the fact. “We're both a little out of practice though.” Starscream was out of breath, bleeding from a myriad of cuts, some shallow and some deep. He flexed his claws and raised his brows at Megatron. With a shock, Megatron realised he was being offered a hand up. He swiftly took Starscream's hand and stood.

Starscream's didn't pull him up like a bot offering mercy to a bested enemy, but he did help him to his feet like... well, like a sparring partner. Megatron swallowed, watching Starscream with widened optics. It occurred to him then that the situation was not at all what he had thought. Starscream had _not_ been trying to kill him. Or if he had, it had been a mutual expression, the passion of the moment... It had been a healing of a kind, this short battle; a purge. Four million years of poison had finally begun to leach away, and this had been the lance that pricked the boil.

He took stock of himself. His own injuries were minor, and most of the pain that plagued him had been there already, or else his old wounds were bothering him as a result of the exertion. He felt his age, but nothing more serious, aside from his pride. He glanced around at the assembled audience. No bot had applauded Starscream's victory, but there was a murmur of appreciation and sceptcal surprise. He expected to see scorn in their optics when they turned them on him, but instead there was awe.

Starscream retrieved his borrowed swords, and Megatron did the same with his blades. He tried to match Starscream's casual nonchalance, but his system was haywire. Starscream wiped off Cyclonus's blades – with some difficulty due to his damaged arm – and returned them to the mech, while Megatron put his own blades away. His hands were shaking, but something in the core of him, in his spark, stirred.

Starscream had changed. He was stronger.

He was stronger than Megatron.

If Starscream had wanted to slay Megatron and take his throne, he could have done so just a moment before. Megatron's life had been in Starscream's hands. By staying his hand, Starscream had pushed the crown firmly back into Megatron's hands and forced him to take it. He had also won respect in the optics of those watching, and doubtless the tale would spread to all who hadn't personally been there to witness Starscream prove himself the strongest, quickest, most invincible warrior of the Decepticon cause – everybot had seen Megatron bested, and Megatron had been for aeons untouchable in terms of prowess and skill. But Megatron's star had fallen when he had allowed Optimus Prime to defeat him, and even he realised that since his return from Akeron he had been only a ghost of the leader he'd once been. He wondered how it would look to them now – the strongest warlord in history fairly beaten, and spared when he should have been slain. Starscream the Immortal had offered him his hand, not in mercy but in friendship.

Decepticons could be a superstitious lot. Depending on which stories one listened to, Starscream may be an undying demon from the depths of the Pit itself, or an angel of Primus on a holy mission. The only thing everyone could agree on, without dispute, was that Megatron was the king he had chosen to serve.


	13. Escape from Akeron

Optimus didn't sleep through until the morning. Just as he had finally drifted off into a fitful recharge he was jolted awake by Bumblebee crashing into the room.

“What is it?” Optimus slurred as he groggily sat up, casting wide optics about the dim room in newly-awake confusion. “Is the warden here?”

“No,” Bumblebee said, and then he was beside the bed and tugging at Optimus's arm. “Something's happened, come on. The door's open.”

“What?” Optimus staggered from the berth and shook his head, willing the rest of his processing systems to boot up fully despite his weariness and interrupted recharge cycle. “Bring me up to speed.”

He followed Bumblebee's urgent cajoling out into the main room. True enough, the main door stood open. Beyond, all was quiet. It was still the early hours of the down-shift, and the lights were low. Still, he would have expected it to be a little more quiet...

“Is that... gunshots?”

“All the comm channels are down, too,” Rush said, emerging from one of the other berthrooms. Her expression was hard, her optics glittering.

“You think we're in trouble?”

“I'm thinking we have a riot on our hands.”

“Yeah, and we slept through most of it,” Bumblebee added.

Optimus passed a hand over his optics. “All right. We're Elite Guard, it's our job to get this place back under Alliance control. Bumblebee, keep trying to raise Hardknock on the comms. Rush, see if you can reach Trapper at all. In the meantime, we're moving out.” He pulled his axe from its sheath and held it loosely with both hands. “According to the official schematics there's a control room off Garellus wing, Hardknock must have some sort of means of resealing the cells. Maybe on the way we can find out what exactly has happened. ...Keep your weapons ready.”

Rush and Bumblebee nodded. Bee transformed his hands to stingers, and Rush drew a couple of knives from her subspace and held them casually.

“All right, let's roll out.”

For the first several kliks, they crept through deserted hallways. Optimus was on edge, and he kept his axe ready.

They reached Garellus Wing, and that was when they reached the first barricade. It looked as though the Akeron inmates had built it themselves by throwing together recharge berths, tables, and anything else they could find. As Optimus, Bumblebee, and Rush cautiously approached, a head popped up over the top of it. A moment later the bot fell back and disappeared, a knife in his optic. Optimus swore under his breath. There went any chance of discussing the matter peacefully.

Other mechs shouted, and Optimus and his bots took cover in nearby doorways as a group of prisoners behind the barricade opened fire with stolen plasma pistols.

“How do we get past?” Bumblebee yelled.

Optimus cast his optics around, wishing to the Allspark that it was Elite practice to carry firearms. There was no way around the barricade, they had to go through. Or maybe, over.

He grit his teeth, readied his axe, and extended his wings. He stormed the barricade alone, jumping and engaging his boosters to power him over the top. A couple of pistol blasts caught him, but he didnt let himself feel it until he had already landed and dispatched the small group of inmates with his axe.

“It's all right,” he called to the others as he retrieved three of the pistols from the fallen 'Cons. Bumblebee and Rush climbed over the stacked up junk and met him on the other side. Optimus handed each of them a plasma gun, and while Bumblebee pulled a face, both of them accepted the weapons.

As they moved deeper into Garellus Wing, they encountered more pockets of hostile inmates, and the frequency with which they met resistance increased the further they went . They stepped over corpses of guards, easily picked out by their uniform glossy black paint jobs. The hallways were filled with smoke and dust, and smelled of plasma burns and energon. Somewhere a siren was still wailing.

They reached one of the guard stations. A small office set off one of the main corridors, it was guarded by a quartet of inmates armed to the denta with stolen weaponry. Two heavily-built warmechs, one femme of indeterminate faction, and one minicon toting a plasma shotgun. The Autobots crept as close as they could, and Prime peered around the corner at the station and its guards both. The war-builds were stationed facing opposite directions, watching both ends of the corridor. The minibot was pacing, while the femme moved inside the office, just out of Optimus's line of side.

Prime retreated around the corner again and crouched to join his companions. “Four enemies,” he whispered. “Two heavies and a minibot, one bot inside the office. Rush and I will take one of the big bots each, Bumblebee I need you to get inside that office.”

Bumblebee slung his stolen rifle over his back and activated his stingers. “Combat-grade, baby,” he whispered with a grin. “They wont know what hit 'em.”

“All right,” Optimus said softly, shifting his grip on his blaster. The weapon felt alien in his hands. After a moment, he reconsidered, and shifted the gun to one hand, gripping the shortened haft of his axe with the other. “Let's go.”

Optimus rounded the corner first. “Hey!” he cried, and the head of the first war-build snapped up. A big bruiser of a mech painted in dark green camo, his optics glinted malignant red in the split-second he took in Optimus and began to raise his gun. Optimus moved swiftly, the result of years upon years of training, practice, and instinct – his arm swung up in an arc, and his axe spun through the air to embed its blade deep in the head of the escaped 'Con, right between the optics. In the same moment, Rush rolled behind him, coming up into a crouch and aiming her rifle at the second heavy mech.

The minicon got off a blast from his shotgun, but the recoil sent him flying backward to land on his aft. The shot went wide, and Optimus picked him off with his pistol. The second war-build roared in outrage and charged, laserfire spraying from a stolen cannon haphazardly attached to his shoulder. Optimus cried out as a spray of fire caught him across the midsection, and he went down to one knee. He heard Rush curse as a shot caught her as well, her shots peppering the advancing 'Con but hardly seeming to make a difference.

Suddenly the sound of roaring engines drowned the rattle of the Decepticon's gun, and Bumblebee skated past Prime in a blur, low to the ground, the wheels on his heels and boosters on his back providing speed and manoeuvrability enough to evade the big mech's shots until Bee could get up close to him. He skidded, spinning behind him, and digging the point of one stinger deep into the side of the mech's chassis. Golden electricity crackled over the bot's frame as he spasmed and yelled. Bumblebee stabbed his other stinger into the small of the bot's back, forcing him to his knees, and then he pushed the bot forward, straddling his back, and jamming the first stinger into the side of the Decepticon's neck. When the mech was down for the count, the little bot looked up and grinned.

“I may be small,” he laughed, “but I'm scrappy!”

“Laugh while you can.” The last of the enemy bots emerged from the office and swung  club, and cracked Bumblebee over the back of the head. The little bot went down, but an astrosecond later the femme had a knife through her wrist, making her drop her weapon. Optimus forced himself to his feet and pointed his pistol at the bot's head.

“Stand down,” he growled. His gaze flitted to Bumblebee for an instant – knocked out, he guessed, but alive. Fixing the femme with a hard look once again, he watched as she backed slowly away. A disdainful sneer was on her face. “Get in the office,” Optimus said, gesturing with his gun.

When the femme hesitated, Rush advanced, and in a flurry of movement she grappled the bot into a lock, her wrists pinned behind her back and held in Rush's strong grip. Rush frogmarched the bot into the guard station, and Optimus, checking up and down the hallway all the time, lifted Bumblebee onto his shoulder and then followed.

“What do you want me to do with this one?” Rush asked, pushing the captured femme against the wall. She pulled the blade from her prisoner's wrist and set it down, freeing up her hands to start binding the prisoner's with some cabling. Once done, she turned the bot roughly, and when the prisoner tried to snap at her she backed her against the wall with the still-wet dagger against her throat.

Optimus laid Bumblebee against the opposite wall, gently putting him in a sitting position, and then straightened. His gun away, he studied their unplanned prisoner properly. She had a brand on her shoulder, but it looked faint and rough, its lines indistinct, the design asymmetrical. Her frame was sleek and had once been bright fuchsia and lavender, with the wheels and curves that indicated a ground-based altmode.

“What's your name?” he said, and every ounce of his weariness seemed to be audible in those three words alone.

The femme sneered at him, and then spat, “Surge.” She met his optics defiantly for a moment, and then looked away. Hands bound behind her back, she slid down the wall until she was curled up in a sullen crouch.

“Surge,” Optimus said, and he fought his best to sound gentle. The wounds to his chassis pained him and bled slowly, though his internal diagnostics told him they had miraculously missed any immediately vital spots. “Can you tell me what's happening here?” He gestured to indicate the prison in general.

Surge chewed her lip for a moment, frowning up at him sidelong. Then, as if she had evaluated her options and decided she had nothing to lose by answering, she said, “What do you think is happening? The prisoners are taking the prison back.”

“That's madness,” Optimus said incredulously. “When high command hears of this they'll just drop a bomb on the whole planet...”

Surge thrust her chin up defiantly. “It was bound to happen sometime, Autobot! There's only so much bots can take. Everybot knows Akeron is the end of the line – bots come in but they don't come out. Most of the time they only last a few months before they're never seen again. This place is a black hole. Well, we're done waiting to disappear – now this place is ours.”

Optimus frowned deeply. “What do you mean disappear-” He didn't get the chance to finish his question. An explosion boomed, startlingly near, and made the walls shake and Optimus falter on his feet. He realised in a split-second that the blast had caused nearby tunnelling to start to cave – he heard the crash and roar of rock falling, the rush of dust filling the halls surrounding. And that split-second of distraction was just enough for Surge to slip free of the cables that bound her, grab the discarded dagger, and plunge it deep into Optimus's side. Optimus cried out in surprise and pain – the gunshots might have missed his vital components, but Surge's desperate attack somehow hit true.

The femmebot was out of the door and fleeing at a dead sprint before Optimus collapsed to his knees, one arm pressed tight against his midsection as vivid pink energon spilled onto the floor. Rush made to chase after Surge, but returned after a few paces in pursuit, knowing it was hopeless to seek revenge when the Prime was bleeding out. She crouched down in front of him and studied him with a grim expression. Prime's face was pale and drawn, but he gestured with his free hand to a console across the room.

“We have to contact Iacon... get the Guard...”

Rush stood and crossed to the console. Ignoring Optimus's direction, she tried instead to raise Trapper on the communication unit. She got only static over a dead line. Disgusted, she said, “Comms are down. They must have blown the comm tower...” Her frown deepened and she moved to a different screen, pulling up a holographic display of Garellus Wing, then zooming out to produce a three-dimensional model of the whole of the compound. Beside her, Bumblebee stirred and groaned, and clutched his head. Optimus grit his teeth and fought to keep his vision focused. The blade was still lodged inside him, and a diagnostic flashing red on his HUD told him he was leaking energon internally. He cycled air in and out, mentally preparing to stand up. Rush manipulated the holo-map, turning it this way and that with intent and efficient speed.

Optimus hauled himself to his feet, and stumbled to the console. He leaned heavily on it with one hand, keeping the other over his midsection. Bumblebee exclaimed when he saw him, and rushed to his side, though he was still swaying himself.

Before Bumblebee could pepper his leader with questions, Rush jerked her head at the map. “Look here.” Optimus diverted power and forced himself to focus on the display. The map swarmed with glowing red dots like a turbofox infested with nanofleas. Blue-white dots shone here and there, gradually being snuffed out as the tide of red lights advanced through the compound. Parts of the map were greyed out or crossed out with red flashing marks to show these areas had either caved in or were burning.

“They're wiping them out,” Optimus croaked. The highest concentration of blue lights was in a large chamber in the centre of the complex, a circular area labelled “Hub”, linked with Garellus Wing by a long subterranean tunnel. He nodded to the cluster. “Taking hostages?”

“Uhuh,” Rush said. “Like you said, boss. They'll need something to bargain with when the Guard come down on them with the big guns.”

“We have to- ugh...” Optimus coughed, bringing up energon.

“Nuh uh, boss-bot,” Bumblebee said. “I know what you're gonna say, and there ain't no way we can save 'em. At least not like this.

“Sorry Prime, we're going to have to disobey you on this one – at least, if you want to live, anyway,” Rush said. She turned the map and pointed to a point near the bottom. “Half of this wing is caving in or on fire, or there's too much resistance for us to get through. We'll have enough trouble rescuing ourselves, nevermind Hardknock's guards.”

“All right... fine...”

“There's a medical station here,” Rush said, pointing to the map, a spot beneath them. "Next to the Security point."

Bumblebee studied the map too, his large turquoise optics narrowing. “Those tunnels, underneath the complex... they look like...drainage? Vent tunnels?”

“They're left over from when this place was a mine,” said Rush, reading through some specs on a smaller screen. “Small, but we might be able to get through if they're not blocked. I bet the inmates don't know they're there. You're thinking what I'm thinking, little bot?”

“I'm not little,” Bumblebee bit. “I'm thinkin' we use those to get out of here without getting shot to pieces.”

Rush glanced at Optimus. “Best hurry then,” she said. “I'll take his other side. Let's... what is it you bots say? Roll?”

“Roll out,” Bumblebee muttered under his breath, but he still helped Rush support Optimus as they made their way out of the office. “This way,” he said, pointing.

Rush nodded. “Keep your weapons handy.”

Optimus stumbled along between them, not quite dead weight, but leaving a glistening pink trail of energon behind them. They didn't have anything to patch the wound with, didn't bring a med kit. The best hope for the Prime was that medical station shown on the map as barely more than a store-cupboard. The best they could hope for was probably some bandages to staunch the energon-flow; under other circumstances Rush might have saved the time and made straight for an escape route, leaving the injured bot to fend for himself. She had been court-marshalled for as much in the past. But Bumblebee was there to watch her, and Optimus wasn't just any bot, he was a Prime. She stole a glance at the little yellow bot on Optimus's other side. His young face was drawn with tension and worry, and she felt an unfamiliar pang of compassion. It wasn't far to that medical store.

The passage they needed to take was obstructed – not angry inmates this time, but a simple cave-in, coupled with a budding electrical fire. Fortunately, there was an entrance to the under-passages nearby. Rush supported Optimus's weight while Bumblebee opened the small hatch and poked his head in to scope it out. When he turned back and nodded, Rush guided Optimus through the low opening. The tunnel wasn't wide enough for anything more than single-file, so Optimus had to lean against the rough rock wall and propel himself alone with lurching steps. Bumblebee took point, scouting a few paces ahead, while Rush brought up the rear, blaster at the ready in case of pursuit.

It wasn't a long walk, but it seemed agonisingly slow, especially to Optimus, for whom every step was a labour. The pain was a continual throb, but more worrying was the cold sense of lethargy settling in, a result from the fuel loss. He had to force his limbs to move, to put one foot in front of the other.

At last they reached a narrow staircase, which Bumbebee scaled and lifted a trapdoor at the top. “We're here,” he whispered, after casting a careful optic around to make sure the place was deserted. It was a remote part of the complex, and the map hadn't shown anything else of note nearby. Bumblebee opened the door fully and pulled himself lithely up. Optimus followed rather more clumsily, aided by Bee and Rush both, and Rush lifted herself over the edge and crouched, looking around and casting her sensors out. Optimus leant on Bumblebee's shoulder, and they approached the door together.

“Strange,” Bumblebee murmured. He pointed upward, to a set of security cameras and gun turrets – thankfully offline after all the chaos. Presumably whoever was meant to be manning them was no longer at their station, and quite possibly no longer online. In addition to the cameras and guns, there was a desk nearby for a security bot to guard the door, the spot currently vacant, of course. “Why all the security for a simple medical store-room? Slag it, the door's locked too-”

“Let me,” Rush said, gently shouldering them out of the way. “Stand back.” They did so, and Rush shot off the locks with her plasma gun. The smoke set off a sprinkler system, absurd as it seemed under the circumstances. Getting drenched, the three bots hurried into the spurious sanctuary of the medical station.

And stopped abruptly. Optimus unsteadily stepped away from Bumblebee's support, letting his hands fall to his sides in his surprise. Energon flowed from his wounds as he looked around the chamber they had entered. The map had shown only a store-room, but now he was here Optimus recognised the chamber. If he wasn't so foggy-headed from fuel-loss he would have recognised it on the map beforehand. A large chamber, kitted out like a hospital ward straight out of a nightmare, with other rooms leading off it and teh walls lined with strange equipment. It held only one berth, and one patient - Shockwave.

“Optimus, your wound,” Rush said, even as the gunshot in her own shoulder made her wince.

Heedless, Optimus approached the berth. He recognised the mech there all too well. Hardknock's words were replaying in his head. _The bot who used to run Akeron... holding him for questioning... something going on, we'll get it out of him somehow..._

Surge had talked about disappearances, and come to think of it, something Hardknock said should have tipped him off as well. He would never get the chance to look through the warden's files now, never get to conduct the thorough investigation into Akeron's underside he'd imagined – not now the place was a chaotic warzone. By the time the Guard got the place under control again, if they didn't raze it first, any evidence Optimus could have used to further track the raider from the _Ariel_ 's path would be lost or destroyed. Whatever had been happening in Akeron prior to Starscream's escape, all the bots who knew about it were either dead or lost to him. All except one...

He stared at Shockwave. He guessed Hardknock had been trying to get something valuable out of the bot's head, if this room was anything to go by. Shockwave's faceplate was cracked in a spiderweb pattern, his single optic blank and unlit.

All the secrets of Akeron could be in that processor, behind that dark optic.

Bumblebee was suddenly at his side, pressing something against the wound in his side. Optimus looked dazedly down as the little bot used his small, nimble fingers to wrap a tight bandage around his midsection. “We gotta move soon,” Bumblebee was saying, but it felt like his vocals were coming from a long way away. Optimus heard a rushing in his audios, and he felt unsteady and cold. He swayed, and he tried to reply to Bee. The rushing intensified, and the next moment he was in darkness.

When he regained awareness, he was lying on a hard, cold floor, blinking up at Bumblebee's face. Above Bee, Rush's face swam into view.

“Good, you're awake,” she said.

“That was a close one,” Bumblebee said. “We patched you up a little better while you were out,” he offered with a half-apologetic, half-perky smile. Rush's smile was a touch more savage, and she lifted a mini welding torch. “Found some better supplies.”

“Ugh...” Optimus forced himself to start to sit up. His head ached, but the pain in his midriff had lessened. He looked down. A rough patch-job had been done to stem the energon-flow, and his arm was attached to an energon drip. With a flash of nausea, he realised the drip had until recently been feeding the prone form of Shockwave. “How long was I out?” he asked.

“Only about half a joor,” Rush said.

“Yeah, but we've really gotta move now,” Bumblebee cut in. “Look, we patched you up the best we could, now can we _please_ get out of the creepy, collapsing, 'Con-infested prison world?”

Optimus nodded and waved, acknowledging Bee's rising panic but not about to give into it. “We're taking him with us,” he said, and jabbed a finger at Shockwave.

“What?”

“Look,” Optimus found his breath was still short, and it was still an effort to divert the little fuel the drip had afforded him to keep his frame moving instead of shutting down into a healing stasis like it wanted to. They were going to have enough dead weight as it was. “We take him with us. Whatever was going down here on Akeron, I'm pretty sure he knows. We're never going to get to question the warden or go through the records – if there even were any records kept – so without him this will be a completely wasted trip. You want all this to be for nothing?”

“All right, all right,” Bumblebee conceded. “But how're we gonna get him out of here?”

“Leave it to me.” Rush deftly unhooked Shockwave's brain from the machines surrounding the mech, and made a passable job of closing up his helm, concealing his open neuronet from sight. Optimus didn't want to know where she had learned to do that. “Can you stand on your own now, do you think?” she asked him. He nodded, and she gave a grim little smile. With that, she lifted Shockwave off the berth and over her shoulder. The mech wasn't as tall as Optimus remembered, and Rush was a strong and muscular femme. “All right,” she said, only sounding slightly strained. She braced Shockwave's weight, balancing skilfully. “Let's go.”

They once again took to the lower tunnels. They were able to avoid almost all the inmate activity by bypassing the populated areas via these tunnels. Optimus guessed they were a thing only a privileged few knew about, probably guards only. No doubt the inmates would get those secrets out of their hostages in time, but he hoped there were some secrets of Akeron that were safely confined to the dormant mind of the mech Rush now carried.

As before, Bumblebee took point, stingers at the ready. Optimus brought up the rear this time, just about able to stagger along and hold his axe at the same time. Rush walked in between them, bowed under Shockwave's weight, the mech's frame scraping against the tunnel's ceiling and walls as they passed.

It seemed to take an age. Optimus readjusted his optics, not sure if the continual dim, blurry vision was a result of his failing systems or if the unending darkness was really closing in around them. The tunnels were unlit, illuminated only by their optics and biolights. He didn't keep track of his chronometer, but it felt like they were trekking for joors, while far above them booms, cracks, and shouts told them that the battle for Akeron was still not quite yet won. Optimus felt the pull of guilt in his spark at fleeing like a coward instead of throwing himself into the fray. But it was as Rush had said – it was hard enough saving themselves, let alone anybot else. And besides, somebot had to let Command know what had happened here. Putting his worry and shame away for now, he shifted datatrack and focused once again on putting one foot before the other, on keeping his head down so he didn't scrape it on low-hanging stalactites, on keeping his sensors and senses alike on alert for any sound or sign of danger. They had to change their path several times due to obstructions, where the tunnels had either been closed off long ago due to being unsafe, or where the more recent explosions had resulted in rock-slides and cave-ins.

At long last, Optimus thought the path was finally sloping upwards. It still felt like a long time before he felt a breath of real air on his face – not fresh by a long shot, but fresher than the dank, stale air within the deep tunnels. Kliks later and they were emerging from the subterranean labyrinth onto the surface of Akeron. Optimus took a moment to catch his breath once he was free of the tunnel. The planet's grey, barren surface stretched away before him, pitted with craters and shallow quarries, punctuated by jutting, jagged formations. The tell-tale domes of the prison complex were a surprisingly long way away, and were lit in amber and crimson as half of the place burned. As he watched, a half a dozen ships took off from a spot some distance clear of the domes, shooting up into the sky like burning spears. Some of the inmates had gotten wise, then, it seemed. Some would want to stay and hold their new fortress, but he supposed most would realise staying wasn't safe. Those would be Autobot ships taking off, or else impounded vehicles that could be tracked, if anybot had the spark or the time to do so. It was a task for the Guard, and hopefully not one he himself would be assigned. That many desperate escapees, disappearing into the neutral fringes of space?

He turned the thought over as he watched another take off. “Do you think some of them will go back to Megatron's side?” he wondered aloud.

Bumblebee shrugged. “Maybe. You think he's got some kinda homing beacon for 'em?” Optimus shrugged. “Would be slagging convenient if he did. We could follow one of those ships, lead us right to him.”

“Speaking of which, is anyone able to reach Trapper? We need to get off this rock and report this disaster.” He glanced at Shockwave, whom Rush had temporarily deposited on the rocky ground to give her back a break. “I don't really want to still be here when the Elite Guard get here.”

“Right you are.” Rush turned away as she tried to raise Trapper on the comm. She must have got through somehow, as a few kliks later he heard the buzz of one of the Odyssey's little shuttles, piloted on remote by the larger ship's ancient pilot. Gratefully, the three bots boarded, Rush and Bumblebee toting their Decepticon cargo between them now.

Trapper guided the shuttle up to the hulking mass of the _Odyssey_ and into its sole docking bay just as somebot on the ground realised the complex had ground-to-air guns, no doubt intended to prevent just such escapes as Optimus had just witnessed. Fortunately, the _Odyssey_ was a tough old bird, and most of the shots glanced off her heavily shielded metal hull as Trapper turned the ship's prodigious bulk and ascended, leaving Akeron's thin atmosphere far behind.

Optimus watched the planet fall away through the viewing window of the shuttle bay door. The pain in his midsection was a constant and insistent throb, and he didn't have the greatest faith in his comrades' medical abilities, though at least he was still standing.

Once he was happy they were far enough away from Akeron and the stolen ships buzzing around the inhospitable little rock, Optimus asked Rush and Rig, who had been hovering sceptically at the shuttle bay entrance, to help him move Shockwave into the ship. The older femme obeyed with taciturn, disinterested competence, a smouldering cygarette tucked behind her pointed audio. The _Odyssey_ didn't have much of a medical bay, and her crew certainly didn't have a medic. They found a spare cabin, barely more than a cubby-hole with a small berth across one wall, and stowed their peculiar cargo there. Rig gave the Decepticon a cursory look over.

“Seems stable,” she grunted, gently tilting his helm this way and that upon the hard foam pillow. “Need a doctor to give him a proper look, but his spark seems steady enough. Fuel tank okay. Problem's the head.” She pointed to the crack across his face-plate. Some of his helm had been deformed by whatever blow, or blows, had cracked the optic glass. “Somebot clouted him real good. Frame's functioning, but I don't think anybot's home upstairs.”

Optimus nodded in thanks. Arms folded, he remained in the cabin even after Rig squeezed past and left, already re-inserting her cygarette between her lips. Optimus leaned against the wall and looked own at his uncertain prize. What secrets lay hidden in that processor, he wondered? If anything remained in there at all. For all he knew, the once formidable Decepticon Shockwave might be nothing more than a large, scary-looking hunk of mindless metal.

Satisfied Shockwave wasn't about to expire from fuel-loss at least over the course of the night, Optimus made his slow and painful way back to his own cabin and collapsed on his berth. Trapper had instructions to head back toward Ratchet's idyllic retreat. Optimus hated to intrude even further on his old friend's retirement, but there wasn't another medibot he trusted as much. He was pretty sure he was no longer in any immediate danger of keeling over, so he figured he could survive on Bee's patch-job until they reached Ratchet. More importantly, he wanted Ratchet's opinion on his new comatose friend – and maybe Arcee's as well, if she was willing. It was a cruel piece of irony, perhaps, and maybe it was too much to ask of her, but Optimus didn't know what else to do.

He had been sent away from Cybertron on the overt mission of tracking down Decepticons, but the longer his voyage went on, the more time he had to turn over events in his mind. Yes, he had brought embarrassment to the Elite Guard by first getting the new flagship wrecked not once but twice, and then going on to lose the two most dangerous and important Decepticon prisoners the galaxy had ever seen, but he was starting to wonder if it wasn't more than that. He hadn't heard a whisper about exile until he started poking about through the Metroplex's files on Pyrovar.

Well, if Sentinel had thought to send him away into the isolation of space away from Iacon's records and out of harm's way, he had miscalculated. Perhaps he hadn't counted on the raider's severed head being left at the site. And there was increasingly little doubt in his mind that this was Sentinel at work. He was the one who stood to gain from Optimus's absence – he already had the _Ariel,_ and now he was free to work his aft off to get back into Ultra Magnus's good graces. Covering up some shady operation for the sake of making himself look good wasn't, as sad as it was for Optimus to admit, beyond Sentinel Prime. Sentinel had been involved with some unsavoury mechs in the past, but actual Decepticons? Optimus didn't think even Sentinel would go that far. 

Optimus rolled over on his bunk, grimacing at the fresh shot of pain that racked his frame. There was something rotten at the core of this, hidden by webs of deception and misdirection.

“Okay,” he murmured to himself. “Let's go over what we know.” A raider who had attacked the _Ariel_ and whom Optimus had killed had disappeared, possibly along with others, from the _Ariel_ crash-site, and reappeared later on Pyrovar, seemingly via Akeron. Optimus had seen the battle-mechs on Pyrovar locked in combat with Starscream and the Decepticons. From afar they had looked like Autotroopers, but when Optimus had tried to look up records of who might have been stationed at the Pyrovar facility, not only had he turned up nothing but high-clearance files he had no access to, but he had also found himself banished from Cybertron – and from access to the Iacon infonet. Tracing the raider's path had brought Optimus to Akeron, where he had found a whole lot of trouble, including a dead warden, and the place in enough chaos to mean any trail was impossible to follow further. But he had found Shockwave. Shockwave, who warden Hardknock had linked up to an entire room of machinery in the interests of mining his vegetative processor for the truth as to the extent of the mess he had been brought in to clean up.

Optimus rolled onto his back and groaned. He could untangle the mess in the morning. For now, he desperately needed to recharge, and hope that his self-repair systems would start to knit the damage Surge had inflicted on him in her desperate bid to escape.

As his consciousness started to drift, he found himself wondering what might become of the slight femmebot with the once-bright paint job and the botched-up brand, defying him with such pride and righteous anger. Wondering about the haunted look in her optics. Her blue optics... He frowned. He couldn't be remembering that correctly, could he? Before he could examine his memory further, he succumbed to strut-deep exhaustion and sank into a deep sleep, and passed the down-shift cycling through dreams of endless shadowy tunnels and angry blue optics glaring at him from the dark.


	14. P-Over-M

Prowl sat in lotus pose in the centre of his cell, his optics offlined and his frame perfectly still. They had placed he and Drift in separate cells, but Prowl could sense the other ninjabot's spark signature somewhere nearby.

He had expected questions at once, but he had been meditating for three joors by the time Jazz came to interview him. He didn't rise when the guard deactivated the forcefield and opened the door, and Jazz stepped inside.

He sampled Jazz's restricted EM field with his sensors and detected a chaotic jangle of emotions kept in check beneath a carefully controlled exterior. The Jazz he had known a thousand years ago had been easy-going, compassionate, and trusting. He hoped the bot he had once called friend was still in there, behind the coldly professional Elite Guard officer who now stood before him.

“All right,” Jazz said, placing his hands on his hips. “Who are you, and what did you do to Prowl's body?”

Prowl dipped his sensors deeper, using his psychic ability to go beyond the scope of normal detection. He picked up suspicion, outrage, confusion, sadness, and fear. It was clear Jazz didn't recognise him as the bot he had once called brother. It hurt, and Prowl felt both insulted and betrayed.

Prowl used his mind to push the cell door shut, and it closed with a crash. Jazz turned and the guard outside yelled and tried to wrench the door back open. With a thought, Prowl made sure it was locked.

He rose to his feet and frowned when Jazz took half a step back. His supposed friend was afraid of him. He felt his pain and anger crystallise inside him, becoming cold.

“Open the door,” Jazz said.

“Not until I get some answers,” Prowl replied. His vocals were soft and calm, his frame still and poised.

“Hold up a nanosec,” Jazz said, stepping forward. “I'm the one askin' the questions here-” Jazz cried out as a phantom hand suddenly shoved him back against the door and squeezed around his throat. Prowl never moved, but Jazz struggled in shock and tried unsuccessfully to break Prowl's psychic hold. Prowl experienced a shock of his own when he realised Jazz, who had become his teacher in lieu of Yoketron, lacked the power to resist his own.

“How're you doin' this?” Jazz gasped. He stilled his frame and cycled his intakes as deeply and evenly as he could. Prowl realised he was centring himself to make a psychic counter-attack.

“You used to call it 'P over M',” Prowl said. “I seem to have a natural aptitude. Now, my questions.”

Jazz grit his teeth and growled, “Make ‘em quick.”

“I will,” Prowl answered. “First: what makes you think Drift was involved in Dai Atlas's murder?”

“He's a Decepticon. Atlas's been keepin' him tame for the last couple hundred stellar cycles, and now he’s finally gone rogue. Who else are we gonna suspect? Dai Atlas, the other recent disappearances – it has to be him.”

“Does it?” Prowl asked with a tilt of his head. Before Jazz could respond, he asked, “Why do you think I'm an impostor? What made you think of that?”

When Jazz didn't answer, Prowl's first thought was to tighten his grip. Instead, he reined the icy killer inside him back, and reminded himself this was his friend, or had been once. He released Jazz abruptly and the other ninjabot gasped and massaged his throat.

“...I don't want to hurt you,” Prowl said tiredly. “Whatever you believe, whatever is going on here that put that thought in your mind, it really is me. That’s the truth. I arrived on Cybertron just a few orbital cycles ago. I was at the Sanctuary paying my respects to Master Yoketron. I met Drift there, and was helping him to clean the place up. Drift couldn’t have killed anyone, he was at the Sanctuary with me the whole time.”

“So you say,” Jazz rasped. “That doesn't explain why your signature is so different, or where you've been the last thousand years. I look at you and I see Prowl, but none of my other sensors agree. It's like lookin' at a stranger wearin' Prowl's face, walkin' around in Prowl's body-”

“I didn't ask to be brought back,” Prowl said. “I still don't know how or why it happened. I know that I have been dead for the last thousand years. I know that I'm back now, for some reason perhaps only the Allspark knows. Maybe I came back different, but my mind, my memory core, those are the same. What can I do to prove to you I am who I say?”

For a moment he thought he had finally gotten through to Jazz when he saw the other bot's expression falter, saw indecision in his optics, but then Jazz shook his head and turned away. Prowl unlocked the door with his mind and allowed Jazz to open it. He felt numb and sad and exhausted. His friends should have welcomed him home with open arms, not thrown him into a prison cell. It was ironic that he had found more friendship and trust with an ex-Decepticon and a mech who had once been his sworn nemesis.

“I can't take the risk,” Jazz said as he paused in the doorway, speaking over his shoulder. “I got my orders, and you were found in the company of a rogue Decepticon. Even if I wanted to help you out, my servoes are tied.” There was sadness in his voice, but he still closed the door behind him and reactivated the forcefield. “I'm sorry,” he said, and then he turned and walked away.

Two guards took up positions on either side of the door. Prowl could sense their sparks, and a psychic touch revealed their unease.

If he wanted, Prowl could open the door, kill the guards with barely a thought…

He returned to the centre of the room and sat down again. He was chilled by his own thoughts. For an instant he had coldly and casually considered slaughtering Autobots in order to secure his own freedom. Maybe Jazz was right, and he really was different. Maybe there really was something wrong with him, because the Prowl Jazz knew would never have let such a thought cross his mind.

He spent the rest of the day in meditation. No one else came to speak to him, and the long joors passed in silence. He was dimly aware of the guards' continued tension, as though his silence and inaction only made them more uneasy, like they thought he was waiting to strike.

As day turned into down-shift, the lights went out. Prowl ceased his meditation and looked around the room by the blue light of his optics. A creeping feeling made his exostructure tingle.

Slowly he stood up, moving as smoothly and silently as a shadow. He closed his optics again and cast his other senses out. He tilted his head, frowned slightly, and then a small smirk tugged the corner of his mouth upwards. He changed his stance, and when the intruder pressed into his space he was ready for him. There was a yelp and a thud as Prowl grabbed the intruder and threw them neatly to the floor. He opened his optics.

The young mech was curled upside-down in a grumbling heap where he had fallen. As he righted himself he cursed in perfectly clipped, Towers-accented Iaconian.

“I take it the Falling Star was too classy for a guttermech like you,” Prowl said wryly.

“Very funny.” The mech stood, some of his dancer's grace restored after his rather unimpressive and humiliating entrance. The cool blue light of Prowl's optics blended with the Towers mech's golden ones, and picked out the curves of Ghost's slim frame, as well as the exasperated look on his face. It could have been the shadows in the room, but that face looked to have a few lines that hadn't been there when Prowl last saw him.

One of the guards outside banged on the door and a pair of optics appeared at the forcefield-covered window. Ghost hid in the corner by the door, out of the guard's eyeline. Prowl stood still and met the guard's optics.

“What's going on in there?”

“Nothing,” Prowl assured him.

The guard's optics slitted and he peered around the cell. Ghost pressed himself against the wall out of sight and waited until the guard turned away. Then he mouthed, “Time to go,” and reached through the door. He startled the guard on the other side enough to grab him and pull him through the door into Prowl’s cell. “Look after this for a moment,” he said and disappeared back onto the other side.

Confused and enraged, the guard slammed his fists against the door. Prowl projected a hologram of himself to the guard’s side, using it to wave at him and provoke him. While the guard swung for the hologram, Prowl hung back, and when a second guard was hurled through the wall the two big mechs collided in a crashing tangle of limbs. Prowl held out his hand and Ghost grabbed it, and Prowl let Ghost pull him through the wall to safety, leaving both guards locked inside the cell.

Once in the corridor outside, Prowl and Ghost faced one another for a moment and then embraced.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” Prowl said.

“Likewise,” Ghost answered. “Now let’s move. No alarms yet, but those guards are raising quite the ruckus. You’re sure you don’t want to…” He mimed drawing a finger across his throat. Prowl winced. It would be easy enough to silence them permanently, but he recoiled from the possibility. He shook his head. “Oh well. At least they’ll have a hard time tracking us. I can’t wrap my signal dampener around you as well, but you don’t put out much of a ping anyway, on account of being dead and everything.”

“Ghost, what are you doing here?” Prowl asked. They began walking away from the cell, following the corridor towards the central block.

“It’s a little bit of a long story. I’ll tell you when we’re away-”

“Ghost, we can’t leave yet. I have a friend, he’s being held here too. I can’t leave him.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Somewhere close…” He turned back toward the cells. “Not this wing, but I can sense his spark. If we’re stealthy and use your phase-shifter, I’m sure we can get to him.”

“All right,” Ghost whispered. “As long as we’re quick.” He put his back against the wall and peered around the next corner. “My partner’s waiting outside, and if I take too long she’ll have to assume I’m either captured or dead.”

“She’ll leave us here?”

Ghost looked back at him, golden optics round. “No, worse - she’ll come in with all guns blazing. Now come on, which way?”

Prowl reached out with his spark-sense. He worked out which direction to go in, and once again took Ghost’s hand. Together they navigated the dark, night-time halls of the Fortress until they reached a block of containment units deep underneath the main complex. They avoided the guards’ patrols, and thus far were fortunate in that no alarm was raised. Still, it was only a matter of time before the guards in Prowl’s cell yelled loud enough to cause a stir.

Drift’s holding cell was more secure than Prowl’s. There were guards outside, as with Prowl’s, but Prowl and Ghost avoided them by phasing through the ceiling. They landed silently, and Prowl immediately gestured that Drift should remain silent also. Drift’s optics were wide and bright, but he clamped his lips shut obediently and nodded. Prowl extended his hand, keeping his other still in Ghost’s. Drift didn’t question, but took Prowl’s hand. Very carefully and quietly, the trio crept out of the rear of the cell, with Ghost in the lead and Prowl following, leading Drift by the hand behind him. They disappeared through the wall as if they had never been there, and the cell guards were none the wiser.

They took the most direct route from Drift’s cell back up to ground level and towards the rear of the compound. They phased right through walls and obstacles, and avoided altercations with guards and staff by avoiding detection altogether. By the time an alarm started to sound, the three ninjabots were just stepping clear of the Fortress’s back wall.

In front of them was a landing pad marked with several bays for delivery vehicles. Above the pad, straddling three bays, was a sleek hovercar. Its jets lit up the night with energon-pink fire. The cockpit was open, and the bot at the helm waved at them urgently. Prowl grabbed Drift and Ghost firmly by the waist and jetted them up to the car with his boosters. They all piled in and the cockpit closed.

“Any incidents?” the driver asked as they guided the car upward and away from the landing pad. The Fortress was lit up like a beacon as the alert came into full effect, and in a matter of moments the delivery bays would be on lockdown. The car coasted out of the exit and out into the Iacon night.

Crowded into the middle on the rear seat, Prowl leant forward. “Whipcord?” he said. The femme in the driver’s seat turned for a moment to flash him a grin. Sure enough, it was Whipcord, the ex-Decepticon Prowl had once hunted for a bounty. She and Ghost had disappeared together at the space station Falling Star during the chaos of a battle with a group of mercs sent to capture her. Prowl and Lockdown had dealt with the mercs, but when the fight was over Whipcord and Ghost had been nowhere to be seen.

Ghost extricated himself from the tangle and crawled into the front seat by Whipcord’s side. Turning back to the windshield, Whipcord pressed the car harder until the engines screamed and the cab shook. She swerved around a couple of buildings and then merged onto the skyway. Then, and apparently with some effort, she slowed the car to match the traffic. Once they were blended into the night-time traffic she looked in the mirror and said, “Bet you wondered where we got to, huh?”

“In part,” Prowl answered. “I’m also wondering how you came to be here. Not that I’m not grateful.” He exchanged a glance with Drift. “We both are.”

“It's a long story. We’ll fill you in on the details,” Whipcord said, turning back to keep her optics on the “road”. “But first we get off the Elite’s radar. I don’t think they saw us get away, but just in case. They’ll be looking for you, and you want to be far away from their scanners.”

Prowl nodded and settled back into the seat. The seats were plush and soft, the interior of the car fixed to a high spec, very comfortable as getaway vehicles went. He guessed it was Towers-built, the kind of luxury leisure vehicle the elites of the city liked to tool around in. He looked out of the window and watched the coloured lights of the city stream by. After a little while he felt a touch on his hand. He looked around to see Drift had covered Prowl’s hand with his own.

Meeting Prowl’s optics, Drift said quietly, “Thank you.”

“Thank them,” Prowl answered with a nod toward Ghost and Whip in the front seats.

“But you came to get me,” Drift insisted. “You could have just run and you didn’t. Do you have any idea what would have happened to me? You’re a hero, but I’m just a Decepticon deserter. It would have been Trypticon or worse… sharing a jail with hundreds of ‘Cons who all know I’m a traitor…” He shuddered visibly. “You saved me.”

Prowl’s face softened, and he squeezed Drift’s hand.

“Prowl wouldn’t let us leave without you,” Ghost said. Prowl and Drift looked up at him. “I’m Ghost, this is Whipcord.”

“You’re friends of Prowl’s, I’m guessing?”

“You could say that. Besides, I owed him a favour and we were in the neighbourhood.”

Whipcord drove the hovercar until they reached an area of the city far from the Fortress. To Prowl’s surprise, he saw the glittering white spires of the Towers district whizz past the windows. They were close to the Metroplex here - not somewhere he would have expected their getaway to take them. Whip steered the car upwards, above the line of wispy clouds, and straight toward one of the eponymous Towers. As they approached, a wide door slid open, like a hangar but smaller, and the car sailed sedately into the private garage. It came to a stop, and Whip shut off the engines and let it sink gently down onto the garage floor. The cockpit opened the four bots piled out.

“Shouldn’t we ditch the car somewhere?” Drift wondered.

“No need,” Whipcord answered. “They won’t find us here. Come on, this way.” They followed Whipcord through a door and up a winding set of stairs. “We’re safe here. Scanners can’t penetrate. We’re off-grid.”

“A safe-house?” Prowl asked. They emerged from the stairwell into a spacious, open-plan apartment. It was huge, and surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the best views of the city. It was a fancy place, built for the cream of Iacon society. “How is this possible?”

“Ah, that’s part of the long story,” Ghost said. He walked over to a private bar area and started getting cubes of thick violet liquid out of a cooler. “Settle in first. Here, have a drink.” He tossed one cube to Drift who caught it deftly with both hands and wasted no time cracking it open and taking a long draught. He threw a second to Prowl. Prowl caught it one-handed, but didn’t open it. He drank seldom, and this stuff looked potent. He preferred to keep a clear head at present.

He set the cube on a low table and took a seat on a comfortable, streamlined couch. “If this place is as safe as you say, then we have plenty of time for long stories. Why don’t you start yours?”

Ghost came over with cubes for himself and Whip, and he and the femme settled on the couch opposite Prowl. Drift prowled restlessly, surreptitiously checking the windows and exits, still not quite at his ease despite his rescue.

“All right,” Ghost said. “So, I suppose I should begin back at the Falling Star.”


	15. Rubicon II

After Starscream and Megatron’s duel, the audience began to drift away. Applause had been scattered and cautious, as though most didn’t quite know what to make of the event. Starscream had lived up to the gossip as an unstoppable force, larger than life, and Megatron, far from showing weakness, had fought as fiercely and hard as any there remembered.

As the crowd dissipated Megatron watched the flames in brazier. Starscream had disappeared, and Megatron needed time to collect himself before he sought him out again. No one approached him, no one dared to speak to him.

It was full dark when he left the circle of firelight and went to find Starscream. He flew out across the forest, following his nose, until the thick growth of trees fell away beneath him into a broad grassy valley lined with craggy cliffs. Starscream was standing on the edge of one such cliff, looking up at the stars. Megatron landed behind him, making no effort to disguise the sound of his approach. Moonlight limned Starscream’s wings and bounced off silvery designs all over his frame, which Megatron belatedly realised were smears and trails of energon. Neither of them had cleaned themselves up after the fight, every cut was still raw and fresh.

Megatron’s steps were soft upon the dewy grass. When Megatron was just a few paces away, Starscream turned, and the light of his optics was eerie.

“Are you here for a rematch?” Starscream asked.

“I don’t think I would survive the attempt,” Megatron replied.

“Is that so?”

Starscream stepped closer to Megatron, and once again the world closed in around them. Megatron was utterly focused on Starscream, and every other concern could go to the Pit.

Starscream had been his lover, his comrade, and then his adversary. For four million years and change they had been trading blows in the same endless battle, the same deadly dance. Starscream had been a relentless thorn in his side, a knife in his back. Starscream had reached out and delivered him from the Pit twice over, had placed a sword in his hand and a crown on his brow and forced him to take up the mantle he had long believed was lost to him. He really believed Stascream would give him Cybertron itself, if only he continued to believe in him. Megatron’s spark ached profoundly as the last four million years fell suddenly and completely into perfect, clear perspective.

He was in love with Starscream. He had been in love with him from the moment he woke up in the Pit of Akeron and Starscream had pulled him out, he simply hadn’t known his own feelings. Perhaps he had been in love with Starscream before then, ages before, millions of years before. Had he fallen for the young recruit, the feisty scout with so much to prove, before war and both their egos came between them and resentment and betrayal soured the water? He couldn’t know. They had done unspeakable things to one another, spent aeons destroying each other, but had that first spark continued to burn, unknown to either mech? Now it had been kindled anew and it blazed with a strength that shocked him. His spark was full of it, his soul burning intolerably hot with the power and intensity of his love.

He cycled a long breath and gave no outward sign of his revelation. He looked Starscream in the optics. He still looked down on him, Starscream being a head or so shorter than him, but it didn’t feel like it; they stood on a level with one another now.

“Why did you do it?” Megatron asked. There was no doubt in his mind now that the entire spectacle had been the result of some scheme, some plot come to fruition. Spark, maybe Megatron’s own feelings were just another variable Starscream factored in, plotted toward and manipulated by that fiendish, brilliant processor. If anybot had the guile and ambition to scheme a way into Megatron’s spark, it was Starscream. Instead of alarm, Megatron felt a blurry sense of admiration.

Starscream shrugged. “I wanted a match,” he said. “I’ve been restless just like anybot else. Shadow fights like a warrior through and through, but Whisper made him swear to protect me. He says he doesn’t, but he holds back. He’s safe.”

“And there’s no other bot here who could offer you the challenge you want?” Megatron said.

“No. I knew you wouldn’t hold back. You never did before.”

“Was that the only reason?” Megatron pressed. He knew Starscream too well than to accept the surface lie. “Tell me, really.”

“You needed it,” Starscream said. “You can’t afford to be complacent now. The bots can see you difference in you, even if you don’t. They see it and they think you’ve become weak.”

“Didn’t you just prove them right?” Megatron asked. “I lost the fight.”

“You didn’t see yourself. You were magnificent, Megatron. You showed everyone you’re still as strong and unstoppable as you always were,” Starscream said, and there wasn’t even a hint of flattery in his voice. Megatron had always found it hard to tell when Starscream lied, but he thought he was being honest now. “Don’t look at me like that. I couldn’t _let_ you win, could I? I wouldn’t do that for anybot.”

“True… But Decepticons value strength. A weak leader is no leader at all.” Megatron shook his head. “All you did was prove how unworthy I am-”

“And how worthy would you _feel_ if I’d handed you the win?” Starscream snapped. “We share the throne, that means we have to be equal. But why should _they_ follow us? Me, the betrayer and you, the has-been? Now they’ll remember who you are. They’ll remember the warlord, the rebel, the mech we all took the brand for.” Megatron was shocked by the passion in Starscream’s voice. “And maybe  _you_ will too."

“You showed them your strength as well,” Megatron said quietly. “And your loyalty.”

Starscream looked down. “I told you I need you,” he said.

“You did,” Megatron said. He leaned closer, bowing his head. “My debt to you has increased again. I wonder what you’ll ask for when you decide to call it in.”

“Just one thing,” Starscream said. “Only Cybertron.”

Megatron laughed. His spark, aching as it was, felt light and buoyant. “Your ambition hasn’t diminished a bit, I see,” he said. His fingertips hovered at Starscream’s cheek.

"So, about that rematch," Starscream said, stepping away. Megatron barely had the self-control to stop himself reaching after him, or falling at his feet.

He drew his blades and offered one to Starscream. Starscream took it, and they faced one another. Starscream met Megatron's eye with a toss of his head, the challenge implicit in his mischievous smirk. 

This time both mechs stayed far away from the killing edge. They moved through forms with a fraction of their full speed, almost as if practicing. Megatron pushed, Starscream deflected or moved aside; Starscream attacked and Megatron met him in the middle. They circled back and forth, moonlight flashing on their swords as the blades slid against one another. When Starscream gave way before yet another of Megaron’s advances, Megatron knew this for what it really was: a dance, and one that Starscream was letting Megatron lead. 

Megatron caught Starscream’s blade with his own and forced it down. In the same beat he stepped in close, and Starscream retreated until his back hit the trunk of a huge tree. Megatron’s hand was at Starscream’s throat and Starscream’s head was tilted back.

“Do you yield?” Megatron said. Starscream smirked up at him but said nothing. Megatron threw his sword down and held Starscream’s helm between his hands. “Do you _yield_?”

Starscream’s fans stalled, and Megatron could hear the denial on its way. He wouldn’t accept it.

He pressed his lips to Starscream’s and kissed him hard. Maybe if he did it right he could tell Starscream how he felt without saying a word. His spark was caught in a hurricane, how could Starscream possibly not sense it too? Starscream was curiously passive as Megatron kissed him, and when Megatron pulled back he was in a maelstrom of uncertainty. He rested his brow against Starscream’s, closed his optics, and awaited judgement.

Starscream put his hand on Megatron’s chest. Megatron braced himself to be pushed away, ready for the barrage of harsh words and outrage, but he didn’t move away. He couldn’t, not now - he couldn’t leave Starscream’s side until he was pushed.

When Starscream’s lips touched his own, Megatron’s first sensation was amazement. Starscream kissed him slowly, and Megatron held still to let Starscream do as he wished. Starscream slipped his glossa into Megatron’s mouth and wrapped his arms around him. Megatron curled his arms around Starscream’s middle and crushed him against his frame.

When Megatron’s head was fair spinning from the kiss, Starscream stopped it and rested his cheek against Megatron’s.

“We really shouldn’t,” Starscream whispered.

It was true, there were a hundred reasons why they shouldn’t tangle their sparks together like this again, why they shouldn’t complicate an arrangement that was working. Everything they had worked so hard to build could go up in flames all over again.

Megatron had a hundred fervent arguments why none of that mattered. He could compose speeches on why they _should_.

The only word he managed to say was, “Please”.

He held onto Starscream and stared into his optics. Desire pulsed through his fuel-lines and desperation fogged his mind. _Don’t deny me now_ , he begged silently, _don’t leave me alone, not again, not now…_

Starscream had denied him after their escape from Akeron because he had been wary of their power-play. Megatron understood he had been unwilling to surrender the power he had earned, to offer it up to Megatron and place himself once again beneath Megatron’s rule, but now there was no question of that. The months that had led up to this night made it abundantly clear that the real power belonged to Starscream. Megatron would wear the crown Starscream gave him and lead their armies with Starscream’s drive and passion and brilliant mind to clear the way, to guide his hand and show him the path. There was no limit to what they could achieve now. There was surely no question of Megatron reneging on their arrangement or claiming anything from Starscream that wasn’t freely given. He desperately hoped Starscream understood that.

He watched Starscream’s face for the tiniest, slightest movements. He seemed to be at war with himself, until at last he let out a sigh and muttered, "Oh, frag it." 

And then he kissed him. Starscream’s kiss was assertive and bold, and Megatron met him and kissed him back with all the passion in his spark.

He had been alone for a thousand years with no touch save whatever Shockwave deigned to give him. The memory of that touch alone was almost enough to chill Megatron’s desire, and he recoiled from the files before that traitor could sully this as well. This was precious, this was connection. It couldn’t be more different from the travesty and degradation he had experienced at Shockwave's hands. He didn’t want to associate the two in any way.

They moved away from the tree, and Starscream lowered them both onto the soft grass. They never stopped kissing, and Megatron decided that nothing else was even worth thinking about - there was nothing in the universe that required his consideration or thought other than kissing Starscream. Their kisses became hotter and firmer, and Starscream lay back on the grass and pulled Megatron on top of him. Megatron dragged his hand up and down Starscream’s body, squeezing his waist and smoothing over the swell of his cockpit. He tilted Starscream’s head back and pressed his face against his throat to inhale his scent. Starscream arched subtly beneath him. Megatron eased his way between Starscream’s legs and was surprised when he felt the searing heat of the seeker’s core. He groaned and pressed his hips against Starscream’s.

Starscream’s hands pressed against Megatron’s back. Megatron grazed Starscream’s throat with his teeth and then nuzzled his jaw. Despite his outward eagerness, Megatron sensed a tension in Starscream. He lifted his head and they locked optics. Megatron tried in that look to make Starscream understand that he didn’t have to worry any more, he didn’t have to keep his guard up, not with him…

Starscream’s guarded expression crumbled and then he was kissing him again, clumsy and needy now, hot and yearning. Megatron eased away from the desperate kisses after a while and murmured soft and soothing things. He kissed Starscream’s cheek and then his cockpit. Oh, but he had so much to make up for. So many wrongs he would never be able to right, so much damage he could never repair. He wanted to destroy everyone who had ever hurt Starscream, even knowing that more often than not that had been himself. He kissed down Starscream’s body, soothing and worshipping his miraculous seeker with his mouth and his shaking hands. He kissed the lower part of Starscream’s cockpit and kneaded his hip, and was rewarded by a restless little jerk of Starscream’s hips. Starscream’s thighs parted, and Megatron could feel the heat of him, so close. Starscream writhed a little when Megatron hesitated. He was breathless, his head tossing and his hands kneading Megatron’s shoulders.

Megatron stroked Starscream's thighs and then eased them further apart. He nuzzled Starscream’s lower belly and then, as he moved lower, inhaled deeply. Starscream’s scent made him groan with want, made his spike ache. He nuzzled Starscream’s panel and kissed it lovingly, asking sweetly to be let in. Starscream squirmed and panted, let Megatron kiss and nuzzle him, knead and stroke his thighs and aft, until it was just too much to hold out against. His panel opened and then he was exposed and open directly under Megatron’s gaze.

Megatron marveled at the sight. Starscream trusted him enough to bare himself like this, and frag if he wasn’t beautiful. Starscream’s valve was neat and dark, the outer lips spread just enough to let the inner petals peek through, delicate and energon-pink and glistening. Megatron took another deep breath in, finding the scent of the seeker’s arousal intoxicating. He gently nuzzled the soft outer folds and then ran his glossa over them, up and down. He heard Starscream’s hissed intake of breath, and he kept his audios acutely tuned to Starscream’s voice as he nudged his tongue between those folds to touch the softer parts within. Starscream’s taste was tart and perfect. Megatron’s panel opened and his spike pressurised, hard and straining and already leaking with want. He restrained his first urge, which was to press his face against Starscream’s valve and simply taste as much of that sweetness as he could. Instead he licked the tender folds carefully before nuzzling in and finding Starscream’s anterior sensor node. He flicked his glossa against it a few times and then ducked his head down again. He licked slowly all the way from the tiny little opening in the centre of Starscream’s aft up to his node, and then repeated the motion, as smooth and sweet as syrup. When Starscream was moaning aloud, he focused on Starscream’s clit. He licked in irregular patterns and groaned in pleasure when Starscream rocked and writhed beneath him.

It wasn’t long before he lost all of his careful control. He brought Starscream to overload once, and then his finesse gave way before simple, honest need. He lost himself in this act of worship. His desire was a constant thrum through every fibre of his frame, and his spark felt swollen and hot. He wasn’t impatient for his own release, but rather eager to prolong Starscream’s pleasure.

Starscream’s gasps and moans increased, and his frame became more restless. He writhed languidly, and then with more urgency, until his hips were circling and he was pressing himself against Megatron’s face. Megatron reveled in it. He suckled Starscream’s lips, thrust his tongue inside him, licked and swirled his tongue around Starscream’s little afthole. He held Starscream’s hips firmly as he worked his clit, relentlessly licking, kissing, and suckling until Starscream shuddered though a second climax. Then he released Starscream’s hips and let the seeker grind on him as much as he needed. He was surrounded by Starscream - his taste, his scent, the pressure of his thighs against his helm, the softness of his valve and the music of his moans and sighs. Starscream was his whole world.

Starscream reached for him. Megatron crawled up Starscream’s body and let Starscream kiss him. Starscream’s hands were all over him, reaching and kneading and grabbing. He found himself rolled onto his back, and Starscream straddled his hips and bit his neck. Megatron grabbed Starscream’s narrow waist and squeezed, pressed Starscream down as he arched his own hips up. His spike pressed and slid against Starscream’s silken valve. He shuddered at the heat and sweet slippery perfection of it.

Suddenly a fear gripped him, the fear that he would overload too soon. It had been so long since he had been touched, and even longer since he’d had something real…

The unwelcome reminder of Shockwave’s cold touch was enough to cool him off, enough that he didn’t explode as soon as Starscream started to grind on him.

“Starscream…” Megatron pulled Starscream down for another kiss. He wondered if his face showed how naked he felt, how raw his spark was. He pressed his face against Starscream’s shoulder. He couldn’t tell him. He just couldn’t.

He rolled them again, mindful of Starscream’s wings, and once again covered Starscream’s body with his own. His spike lay heavy and throbbing against Starscream’s belly. Starscream forced him to meet his optics, and Megatron, his weight propped on his elbows, leant his brow against Starscream’s. He moved his hips, slowly sliding his spike back and forth, moving it lower so it slid against the softness of Starscream’s valve. Starscream’s face was flushed. He squirmed and spread his legs wider, opening himself up in invitation. Megatron continued to slide his spike back and forth until he felt the tip find Starscream’s entrance, and then he began to push. Starscream was tight and hot, and Megatron pushed just a little and then eased off, simply enjoying the sensation of Starscream’s opening kissing the very tip of his spike.

Starscream snarled desperately, grabbed at Megatron’s back. Megatron winced at the scratch of those claws, but Starscream’s message was clear. Starscream lifted his hips, and both mechs gasped as the rounded head of Megatron’s spike slipped inside the tight channel of Starscream’s valve. Megatron felt Starscream flex around him, saw the pleasure on his face. He curled his fingers into the earth beneath them and bared his teeth as he fought to hold himself back from the edge.

After a moment he felt in control enough to move. He slowly rocked his hips back and forth, and gradually sank deeper and deeper into Starscream’s body. Starscream’s tight valve opened around Megatron’s spike, beautifully wet, and tight enough to seem to pull him inside. Eventually Megatron’s hips were flush against Starscream’s, Starscream’s valve stretched around the very base of Megatron’s shaft. Megatron’s face contorted as he fought for control, tried to find it in unpleasant memories that dampened the heat scorching his lines.

“Don’t,” Starscream murmured. He kissed Megatron, and then said, “Whatever it is you think about to make yourself hold back… don’t. Just let go.”

“I can’t,” Megatron snarled. He held himself still, knowing that if he moved that would be it.

Starscream stroked his face. He slid one hand down Megatron’s back and laid it possessively on his aft. He pushed gently, canting his hips upward at the same time, urging Megatron to take what he was offering. He brushed his lips against Megatron’s audio and spoke in a sweet, silky purr, “Do it for me. _Please_.”

Megatron gave a broken cry. Starscream had shattered his control as easily as that, and now Megatron was moving, rolling his hips back and forth, his spike sliding deep and long. All the pressure and heat within his body was winding up with the force of a hurricane and then all too soon it was breaking, crashing, exploding into a climax that had him shuddering helplessly against Starscream’s frame.

Afterwards, Megatron was left feeling wrung-out and ragged. His spike was softening inside Starscream, and he felt the warm, lavish wetness that told him he had filled the seeker to the brim. That brought forth a fresh blush of desire, as well as something a little darker - a possessive kind of pride. He wanted to do that again, and again and again.

Starscream kissed his cheek and they rolled over. Still connected, Starscream sat up astride him. Megatron gazed at him in awe. Starscream was magnificent, his wings high and proud, his face flushed and his optics bright, his translucent cockpit and bright armour glistening with dew. There was a smile on Starscream’s lips. He put his hands on Megatron’s waist and leant forward, then moved his hips in a slow circle. Megatron’s spike was softened in the wake of his overload, but still enough for Starscream to enjoy, it seemed.

“Now then,” Starscream said. He began rubbing his anterior node with his fingers. “That was a nice start. We have the whole night left...”

Megatron groaned and let his head fall back. The grass made a soft pillow, and he lay boneless and helpless as Starscream ground on him and rubbed himself. The anxiety and exhaustion of his overload had morphed into a euphoric lassitude, and he was more than happy to lie back and let Starscream skilfully work him back to hardness. Once Megatron was fully hard, Starscream started moving more. He ground and rocked, sometimes sliding up and down the spike that filled him. Megatron watched, fascinated.

Starscream rode him for what felt like joors. Hours of liquid golden bliss, with Starscream’s valve tight and silky around him, gripping and caressing, slipping and sliding. Slowly, slowly, the charge built again. Starscream moved faster. He wriggled on Megatron’s spike and made the old mech laugh, and Megatron grabbed Starscream’s hips and set a rhythm himself. He set his feet and pushed his hips upward, thrusting for real now. Starscream rubbed his clit and panted and moaned with abandon. Megatron drank in the sight of him. His spike hit the top of Starscream’s valve on every in-stroke, and he loved how wide Starscream’s little valve lips were stretched around him. He watched Starscream’s face as well, and that was how he knew the seeker was getting close. He kept his rhythm strong, went a little harder, fucked Starscream like his life depended on it. Starscream liked a deep, hard fuck, Megatron remembered, and he knew he could take it. Starscream fell forward and splayed his hands on Megatron’s chest. He met Megatron’s optics. His own were wide and bright and his face was slack with pleasure. Megatron didn’t let up. He growled, and fucked Starscream for all he was worth, and was rewarded when the seeker came screaming.

Megatron waited until the keenest peak of Starscream’s pleasure had passed before pulling Starscream off his spike and pulling him down atop him. Starscream nuzzled Megatron’s face and clung to his shoulders. Megatron rubbed Starscream’s back and wings. 

After a time, Starscream whispered, “Are you all right?”

“Mm. You?”

Starscream wiggled his hips tiredly and smiled. “You’re so big,” he said wistfully. “No bot can match it.”

Megatron laughed. He covered the whole of Starscream’s aft with one hand and kneaded it hard. They lay in companionable silence for several kliks, wherein Megatron tried to regulate his intakes and not to think about the throbbing shaft of heat and need still pulsing between his legs. Then Starscream lifted himself onto all-fours and looked down, and gasped.

“You old fool!” he said. “You didn’t come.”

“It’s not important-”

“Shut up.” Starscream crawled off Megatron’s body, and the warlord already missed the warmth and weight of his frame. He sat up, only to chirp in surprise when Starscream knelt beside him and took his spike in his hand. “Let me take _care_ of you,” Starscream breathed.

Stunned motionless, Megatron could only sit with his legs spread as Starscream bent and took his spike into his mouth.

He must be big, he thought stupidly - Starscream’s lips stretched tight around him, and he could only take about half the length comfortably into his throat. Still, it didn’t seem to trouble Starscream. The seeker made himself more comfortable and then wrapped his hands around the lower part of Megatron’s spike, so he could massage what he wasn’t able to swallow. He glanced up at Megatron with a playful look in his optics. Megatron leant back on his hands, and then fell onto his elbows, his head thrown back and his back arching as Starscream brought him again to the edge of bliss.

“Starscream, ah-” He flushed with shame and acute lust when he realised he was about to come in Starscream’s mouth. He tried to warn him, tried to tell him to pull back, but Starscream only lifted his head long enough to say, “It’s all right. Do it. I like it.” Then Starscream swirled his glossa all over the thick head of Megatron’s spike before sucking him down as deep as he could. Megatron’s whole body tightened and he bucked sharply, accidentally bumping his spike deeper into Starscream’s intake. Through the roaring of energon in his audios he distantly heard Starscream choking on him, and to his shame it only ratcheted his charge higher. He overloaded with his spike deep in Starscream’s throat, Starscream’s hands and lips around him, made utterly helpless by the seeker all over again.

Starscream sucked him a little while longer while Megatron relaxed dreamily down onto the grass. Megatron stared, dazed and euphoric, up at the starry sky . Starscream licked Megatron clean, and when he was done he crawled up and stretched his body out by his side. Megatron’s gaze slid sideways to him. Starscream looked smug and he was licking his soft, bruised lips.

Megatron wrapped an arm around him and pulled him closer. Starscream draped an arm over Megatron’s chest and held on. Megatron’s spark felt lighter and cleaner than it had in a thousand years, in four million years. He felt better than he could even remember. When Starscream ducked his head under Megatron’s chin, Megatron pressed his face against Starscream’s helm and breathed deeply. He wouldn’t let go of this ever again, he vowed. He wouldn’t mess it up again, wouldn't let things turn sour and bitter as they had before. This was too precious, Starscream was too precious. He would hold onto this forever, and would fight for it for just as long. He would fight to keep Starscream by his side until the very last pulse of his spark.


End file.
